


Our Stubborn Love

by TheWaywardBride



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Family Drama, Getting Back Together, M/M, Post-6x01, Protective Siblings, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 186,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWaywardBride/pseuds/TheWaywardBride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which, after years of being separated by more than just prison walls, Ian and Mickey try to find their way back to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thanksgiving Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lip isn’t letting go of Ian. Not this time. Not ever again.

It’s warmer than usual for late November. Lip Gallagher can feel a layer of sweat forming around his hairline and across his upper lip. He rolls the windows of his shitty car down while his brother continues to flip through radio stations from the passenger seat, mouth tight and eyebrows knotted like someone has tasked him to save the world or something.

“Jesus Christ, Ian, just pick something. You’re giving me a headache.”

“Why the fuck are they already playing Christmas music?” Ian complains, as _Santa Baby_ comes through the speakers. “It’s fucking Thanksgiving. Why does Christmas always have to get all up in Thanksgiving’s business?”

“Probably because there isn’t any Thanksgiving music,” Lip sighs, desperately wishing he had a cigarette between his fingers. He keeps bringing his hand up to his mouth, expecting one will be there. His entire body feels tight like an elastic band stretched nearly to snapping. He hates this day. He’ll probably always hate this day. But the sweet pull of a cigarette would go a long way toward calming him down. They’ll have to stop at the Kash and Grab on their way to Fiona’s. “And because Christmas is a commercial giant, man. Capitalism and all that.”

“Yeah, well, fuck capitalism and fuck Christmas,” Ian huffs, as he starts assaulting the seek button again. Eventually, his brother settles on some news station with two guys droning on about some new healthcare legislation.

“Trying to bore me to death?”

“You’re the one who moved me out to North Side with you,” Ian grumbles, leaning his head back against his seat and stretching out his arms, nearly knocking one of his stupidly large hands into Lip’s face. “People actually care about this shit out there, you know. You wouldn’t believe how many people at the café try to strike up casual conversations about current events with me while I’m making their ridiculous drinks. And God forbid I say I don’t really give two shits which country we’re invading now. Why didn’t you tell me college students were the worst?”

Lip smirks and punches Ian lightly on the shoulder. “You’re not the one trying to educate their dumb asses every day. Kids are the future, my ass.”

“At least you can actually hold a conversation with them,” Ian sighs. “They all just make me feel like a moron. A moron who doesn’t know what he should be caring about.”

Lip feels his hands tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles paling white. There’s a flicker of anger sparking in his gut. His first thought is how much he wants to punch anyone who would make Ian feel that way in their stupid, pretentious fucking face. He’s supposed to be working on these kinds of feelings though—controlling his anger, not drinking himself into a stupor or lashing out every time something doesn’t go his way. But it’s hardest when it comes to Ian.

Ian Gallagher is his best friend. Lip remembers claiming he wasn’t once, when Ian was off on one of his Karen-Jackson-is-the-Devil rants. _No, you’re my brother,_ he had shouted back. It wasn’t true then, and it isn’t true now. _Brother_ doesn’t quite do them justice. Brother is something people are born into. Best friends are chosen, and Lip has been choosing Ian his entire life.

“You like the job though, right? I thought you did?”

A smile tugs at the corners of Ian’s lips. He doesn’t let it fully bloom, but it’s a comfort to Lip all the same. “Yeah, I like it. I’m just being pissy.”

Ian has been working as the Assistant Manager at a popular coffee shop just outside of campus for a couple of years now, moving his way up from barista at impressive speed. It hadn’t taken long for Ian to develop a bit of a reputation on campus. More than once, Lip has overheard the female students giggling about the cute redheaded barista at Rosa’s and how they just had to go after class and try to talk to him. He half suspects that’s why the owner agreed to hire Ian in the first place despite his decidedly spotty work history.

But Ian is so much more than just his looks or his disease. His brother has busted his ass to get his life together—to work out his meds, to earn his GED, to get a job he likes, to get the hell out of South Side. No one is taking that away from him now. Lip is pretty sure he would rather die than see that happen.

“Helps that the commute is a five minute walk and no one tries to rob me on the way,” Ian adds, letting his arm hang lazily out the window.

The apartment they share is small but right next to campus. It’s technically a one bedroom with a study, shoved underneath much nicer apartments seemingly as an afterthought. Even with the living stipend Lip receives as a PhD student and Ian’s relatively decent salary, an apartment on the North Side is still a stretch for them. But Lip doesn’t mind living off stolen food from the cafeteria and whatever the café sends Ian home with at night if it means his brother is with him, somewhere with the safety and stability he needs.

That has been Lip’s primary goal since _the incident_ —getting Ian back on track, making sure nothing like that ever happens again.

 _I fucked up, Lip. I fucked up so bad. I’m so sorry._ The desperate, cracking words from the worst phone call of his life still echo against his skull sometimes, vibrating in his bones. It doesn’t matter where he is. He could be trying to fall asleep after a long day, in the middle of a lecture, or laughing with Ian on the couch, those words can still push their way inside his ears, drowning out everything else. _I’m not sure where I am. No, I don’t know. I took them all, Lip. I don’t think I meant to, but I did. I think I’m dying. I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m sorry._

It’s Lip’s fault it happened. _Hold him tight, don’t let him go,_ he remembers Fiona instructing him one particularly cold night in the van. _This kind of cold isn’t good for babies. Make sure you don’t let go._ Lip did hold Ian tight that night, pressing his brother’s chubby face into his chest and stroking the soft red hair on top his head when he whimpered. Looking after Ian became his job that night, his most important responsibility. But Lip had gotten distracted by college and girls and sexy, secretly batshit crazy professors. Lip had let go, and Ian had fallen.

“Christ, is this really _that_ boring to you?” Ian suddenly asks, snapping Lip out of his thoughts. “You look like you’re on another planet. Thought you were supposed to be smart.”

“Doesn’t matter how smart people like us are, bro,” Lip says, clearing his throat. “We’ve had too much shit to worry about, still have too much shit to worry about, to have time to get worked up by whatever these blowhards are talking about.”

“Maybe that’s why people like us keep getting shit on, you know,” Ian reasons. “Too distracted by our daily shit to worry about the shit still yet to come.”

“Whatever, man,” Lip says, waving his woefully cigarette-free hand between him and Ian. “Can we talk about literally anything else?” Usually, he’s more than happy to talk about this kind of thing with Ian. It’s not often a member of his family tries to engage him in an intellectual discussion, unless Frank’s anti-government rants count, but it’s not what he needs right now. He needs to hear Ian laugh. He needs to hear Ian talk animatedly about what happened to him at work that week. He needs to remember that Ian’s okay, that they’ve both come a long way since the night of that phone call.

“How are you feeling?”

Ian rolls his eyes. Ian always rolls his eyes at that question. Lip’s pretty sure Ian could be on fire or hunched over, turning green and vomiting up sea cucumbers, and would still roll his eyes if Lip asked how he was feeling.

“This about Abe again?”

Abram Bell, the newest name added to Ian’s long list of exes. Usually Lip’s ecstatic to see whoever Ian’s banging that month go, but he had almost sort of started to like this one. Abe is an undergraduate art student, perhaps a little too young for Ian, but smart and caring and  _normal_. Stable. Good. Normal. Those are Lip’s favorite words when it comes to Ian’s life.

“We haven’t really talked about it, that’s all,” Lip offers weakly, not wanting to set Ian off. “Don’t have to if you don’t want to. I thought you liked him—”

“I thought I did too, but he did something messed up,” Ian interrupts, his chin jutting out the way it always does when Ian’s pissed. “And now he won’t stop calling. Have to turn my phone off at night to get any sleep. Never dating someone younger again.”

Lip snorts. “Going back to men old enough to be your dad then?”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey, man, not judging,” Lip chuckles. “We all gotta work out our daddy issues in our own ways, right? I drink angrily, complain about how fucked up the world is, and pretend that doesn’t make me anything like Frank, and you bang guys who—”

“I am begging you not to finish that fucking sentence,” Ian groans. When Lip goes quiet and just smirks, Ian lets out a laugh that makes Lip feel like he’s won some sort of prize. “You’re such an asshole. At least the old guys buy me shit before they turn into annoying stalkers.”

“I know you liked Abe though,” Ian adds softly, after a pause. “I swear I’m not the one who fucked it up this time, as hard as that is to believe.”

“Didn’t think you were,” Lip assures him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder quickly. “The little fucker was too loud anyways. Unless you got some kind of magic dick, I think he just got out off on annoying the neighbors.”

Ian laughs again, long and loud. Lip finds himself thinking about _the incident_ again, about how afterwards making Ian laugh or smile or react at all was like pulling teeth. Relief suddenly floods him. For the first time since his alarm had gone off that morning, he feels his muscles start to relax, his hands start to still, his itch for a cigarette start to calm. Sure, it’s Thanksgiving, but Ian is not Monica. Ian is well. Ian is here. Ian is _Stable. Good. Normal._

“I don’t even like when people are loud in bed,” Ian sighs, shaking his head, a smile still playing on his lips. “Annoys the shit out of me, honestly. Just shut up and actually enjoy it, you know? I don’t need your validation every second.”

“Don’t know, man, I kind of like screamers.”

“Yeah, I fucking _know_ you do.”

Lip scoffs despite Ian having a pretty valid reason to complain. There’s been a long parade of women going in and out of Lip’s life since his relationship or whatever the hell it was with Helene had ended years ago. He knows all the random, nameless girls annoy Ian, but Lip doesn’t want to ever get that lost in someone again, let someone sink her teeth into his heart like Helene and Karen had. Fuck, sometimes he thinks he’s _still_ trying to recover from Karen Jackson. 

It’s what they all do anyways, the Gallaghers, so who’s Ian to judge? The compulsion to _push, push, push_ for what they want and then run when it gets too close, too real, too hard is rooted deep in all of them. It’s a character flaw he thought Ian and Deb had somehow been spared, but in the end they had run too. Sometimes he wonders if it’s more Monica’s fault or Frank’s that none of them seem to be capable of a healthy relationship. It hardly matters though, he’ll blame them both the same when the next one goes up in flames. Gallaghers don’t simply leave relationships, after all. No, they douse them with gasoline and make sure every fucking bridge has been burned to ashes before they walk away.

“Whatever you’re worrying about, can you stop?” Ian asks, an amused lilt to his voice. “I doubt Frank will be there, and Monica sure as hell isn’t coming.”

“Oh, Frank will be there. I’d bet you a million bucks on that,” Lip says, as he pulls the car over in front of the Kash and Grab. The store somehow looks even shittier and more rundown than the last time he was here. “Gave up drinking completely after that last scare, for now anyways. Trying out his father of the year act.”

“Shit, is he telling everyone he loves them again?”

“That’s what our dearest Debbie reports,” Lip confirms. “Caught him watching her sleep the other day, like he used to do to Fiona.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Ian mutters.

They walk into the store together, hands stuffed into their pockets, heads down but eyes alert. The neighborhood isn’t as bad as it used to be, the invading hipsters made sure of that, but old habits die hard.

He catches Ian look around briefly when they enter the store, taking it all in with a faraway look in his eyes. The look vanishes so quickly that Lip almost thinks he imagined it though, and then Ian’s asking the cashier for his brand of cigarettes and Lip’s. Lip tries to protest when Ian goes to pay for them both, but Ian smacks his hand away. “I owe you, man.”

“It’s been like seven years, Ian, you’re gonna have to cut that shit out eventually,” Lip says, when they head back outside and Ian tosses him the carton. “We’re equal partners here. We split the rent, the utilities, the groceries—”

“What groceries?” Ian laughs. “And I wouldn’t even be—” Ian begins to argue, but Lip doesn’t want to go anywhere near where he knows Ian’s about to go. Not today.

“Should we visit Carl soon?” Lip interjects quickly, not waiting to hear Ian’s response before hopping into the car. “Feels like we haven’t been in a while,” he continues, when Ian’s closed his door behind him. “Not like it bothers him all that much.”

Ian tenses up, and Lip realizes he’s just replaced one sore subject with another. Visiting Carl in prison makes Ian nervous. Ian would never admit to it, but Lip can tell by the way Ian has to change his outfit at least seven times before they leave, by the way his eyes dart around when they’re waiting for Carl to arrive, never staying in one place long. Lip isn’t sure if Ian fears catching even the briefest glimpse of Mickey Milkovich or if he hates that they haven't seen the tiny, dark haired thug Ian used to love yet. Lip knows which reason he prefers, which probably means it’s the opposite.

“Yeah, sure,” Ian says. “And I think he likes seeing us.” Lip can tell Ian’s forcing his voice to sound casual, and it makes him cringe. He's reminded of all the times Ian had insisted he was fine before _the incident_ , plastering a smile on his face and laughing weakly at their jokes. “We should bring Debs this time. She was pissed we left her out last time.”

“Why can’t she just go with Fiona, Sasha, and Liam?” 

“I don’t know the logic behind it, man. I just know she was pissed.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever keeps Debs from throwing a fit, I guess.”

“I think she just misses Carl.”

Lip pulls the car over again, this time in front of the Gallagher house. It looks the same as it always has—shabby and crumbling and _home_. As much as he loves this house, he feels a twinge of guilt as he walks up the creaky steps. It’s his fault they’re still here. After graduating, he was supposed to get himself a fancy, high-paying job and pull his family out of the ghetto. That was the plan. That was always the plan. Instead, he had been talked into going to school for even longer so he could make a decent but hardly earth-shattering salary as a professor someday.

The door swings open before he has time to dwell too much on his failings. Fiona emerges, a wide grin splitting her face and a messy apron wrapped around her waist. “Boys! I thought I heard someone pull up!” she exclaims, throwing her arms out. She grabs Ian first, snaking her arms around his broad shoulders and pressing her face into his neck.

“Missed you, Fi,” Ian says softly, one arm around her waist and the other in her hair. “Sorry we’re a little late.”

“My fault,” Lip says, stubbing out his cigarette under his heel.

“Oh, stop, you’re fine,” Fiona insists, pulling Lip in for a hug as well. “The turkey isn’t even close to done yet anyways. The baby didn’t sleep at all last night. Got a bit of a late start.”

Ian smiles and walks past them into the house, calling out Debbie’s name. Fiona pulls away from Lip and puts her hands on her hips. She stares at him for a moment before speaking again. “How’s he doing?” she asks, nodding her head toward the door.

She’s trying not to sound worried, but Fiona’s never been as good of a liar as she thinks she is. Or maybe Lip just knows her too well. “He’s fine,” Lip says, meaning it. “I’m not totally sure what Abe did, but Ian’s the one who called it quits. Seems a little pissed but okay with it.”

“Well, alright then,” she says, smile returning to her face. “Then let’s stop gossiping about him and get in there, yeah?”

“What about you?” Lip asks, before she can retreat back into the house.

“What _about_ me?”

“How are you doing? Can’t be easy, Debbie working at the diner for Sean now.”

Fiona shrugs and goes right on smiling. “It’s a good job for her, and it was good of him to give it to her. It’s hardly the first relationship I’ve fucked up, and I've got the new job now. I’m fine.”

 _Lies. More Lies._ But he doesn’t challenge her on it.

 

* * *

 

The house is loud and a little too warm and Lip can’t stop smiling. Debbie is regaling him with a dramatic tale of how she cursed out a rude customer at the diner, Liam is giggling as Chuckie draws something obscene on the newspaper, and Fiona is bustling frenetically around the kitchen, putting final touches on all the food.

It’s all so nice and vaguely comforting that it takes him a moment to realize he isn’t sure where Ian is. He hops up in the middle of Deb’s story, earning him an annoyed huff, and looks around. “Hey, where’s Ian?”

“Upstairs, I asked him to check on Sasha for me,” Fiona answers, as she sprinkles something on top of the mashed potatoes. “Would you go get him? Almost time to eat, monkeys!”

Lip nods and takes the stairs two at a time. Sure enough, he finds Ian in Debbie’s room, balancing baby Sasha on his lap and making funny faces. He blows a raspberry that makes Sasha burst out into giggles, and Lip can’t help but laugh along with her.

Ian looks up and gives him a small wave. “How the hell did Carl have a kid this cute?” Ian asks, rubbing his nose against Sasha’s. “Huh, how did you turn out so precious, little Princess Sasha?”

“You’re good with her.”

Ian rests her against his chest and shrugs. “I’ve had practice, I guess.”

 _Shit._ Somehow Lip has managed to stumble upon yet another touchy subject for his brother. Before Svetlana took off a few years ago, she had let Ian help out with Yevgeny. Lip never really understood Ian’s desire to take care of his ex-boyfriend’s child, but it made Ian happy, so he didn’t ask questions. The two of them leaving had left Ian close to devastated for a while, and Lip knows he still sends Svetlana money every month.

“We all have, I mean, growing up the way we did,” Ian adds, as if reading Lip’s mind. “Think her mom’ll ever show up? Wanting her back?” Ian stands, bouncing Sasha up and down gently in his arms.

“From what Carl’s told us about Bonnie, I doubt it. _If_ she comes back, it probably won’t be for long,” Lip says, resting a gentle hand on the back of Sasha’s head. “Poor kid. One wayward parent, and one who’s probably going to make a career out of being incarcerated.”

“I’d still take that at over fucking Frank and Monica. Besides, she’s got all of us looking after her. That’s gotta count for something, right?” Ian says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head that makes her giggle again. “Time to eat?”

 

* * *

 

The table is set and food waiting when he and Ian walk downstairs. Frank has appeared like Lip knew he would and has seated himself at the head of the table. Fiona is sitting across from him, occasionally shooting dirty looks his way. Lip settles in next to Debbie again, and Ian by Liam once he gets Sasha set up in her highchair.

Frank is mercifully quiet while he picks at his turkey, barely eating. Liam quickly launches into a story about school that Lip mostly tunes out in favor of looking around at his family. Their eyes are focused on Liam, and they all look genuinely happy for once, but Lip still can’t shake the uneasy feeling building in his gut. It’s been too calm lately, too peaceful, which for the Gallaghers, can only mean disaster is imminent.

It strikes him then how much of their parents he and his siblings all have in them. It seems the harder they fought against Frank and Monica’s influence, the more their poisoned genes decided to double down on them. There’s Debbie and Ian—the two Gallagher siblings who have run off without even leaving a goodbye letter behind, both fleeing from and throwing themselves into conflict with equal abandon. They would probably hate him if he ever voiced how much of Monica he sees in them, in how they want so desperately to love and be loved but, when it comes down to it, don’t want to compromise for that love.

Then there’s him, Fiona, and Carl—all with criminal records, all never quite being able to resist the sweet allure of self-destruction and obviously bad decisions. Frank’s addiction lives in them. Lip loves his anger as much as loathes it, and he worries it’s much the same with Fiona and sex, with Carl and the high-risk, high-reward of crime. It doesn’t matter how far he distances himself from South Side and Frank, it still feels like he’s walking a tightrope, one misstep away from gleefully destroying everything he’s worked so hard for. He’s come so close in the past to throwing it all away.

“My sweet Debbie.” The sound of Frank’s voice makes Lip’s skin crawl. “Growing into such a fine young woman. Have I told you how much I love you?”

“Only a hundred times in the past week, Frank,” Debbie sneers, stabbing into a slice of turkey more aggressively than necessary. “Can we not do this?”

Frank either ignores her or doesn’t hear her, because he starts going down the line, telling each of them how much he loves them. He skips Ian, though. He always skips Ian. Even Chuckie gets a pat on the head, but Ian barely gets eye contact. It causes that earlier spark of anger to flare again, to heat low in his gut until it’s boiling in and pulsing through his veins. His fists clench on top of the table, and he’s just about to tell Frank to fuck off when he notices Ian staring at him.

 _Don’t_ , Ian mouths, shaking his head.

It takes everything he has to obey the request, to swallow down the bitter words building up in his throat. He hates how content Ian is to just sit there while Frank ignores his existence. He hates it almost as much as he used to hate how Ian would just take Frank’s abuse, never fighting back the way Lip knew he would if Frank had ever laid a finger on him.

Dinner winds down quickly. Lip is thankful for that because he’s not sure he could stand being in Frank’s presence for another second. He can see his miserable excuse for a father is actually trying this time, and it’s no small feat that Frank hasn’t had a sip of alcohol in a month, but it’s not enough. Lip is sure it’s never going to be enough, not when he can still hear Fiona telling Lip to hold Ian tight through her own tears, not when he can still feel Ian shivering his arms, doing his best not to cry.

Frank takes off as soon as the food is cleared, and Lip feels like he can finally breathe. Fiona puts on some music, and they start drinking cheap beer and boxed wine and munching on the pies Debbie had brought home from work. Kev and V eventually show up with their kids, and the fun really starts then, all of them laughing and giving each other shit like old times.

The alcohol makes him feel pleasantly warm and helps him ignore the feeling of dread he’s been struggling with all day. When he falls back on the couch and lets his head roll on to Ian’s shoulder, he thinks about how perfect this moment is. It’s just him, his siblings, and Kev and V. They’re at their best when they’re alone like this, free from the weight of outsiders. They’re at their best when they’re just the Gallaghers, laughing through hard times and looking out for each other first.

“You good, man?”

An obnoxiously sober Ian is smirking at him when he looks up. “Nah, you got fucking bony shoulders.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a sweaty mess, but you don’t see me complaining.”

Lip lays his head back against the couch instead and plops his feet on the coffee table next to Ian’s. “I just don’t want anything to fuck this up.”

“What do you mean?”

Lip extends his arms, motioning erratically at all the people gathered in front of them. “Other people, they always fuck us up.”

“Unfortunately, I think some of that fucking up is on us,” Ian chuckles quietly. “You really don’t want a girlfriend or a wife someday? The real thing? Someone to bring around here, so we can all scare the shit out of her?”

“Ian, I probably would’ve married Karen Jackson and raised her Asian baby if she hadn’t suddenly been possessed by the devil,” Lip answers, running a hand down his face. “Don’t got the best instincts when it comes to that kind of thing.”

The same faraway look from the Kash and Grab reappears on Ian’s face. There’s a long stretch of silence before Ian replies. “Do any of us? Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’ll figure it out eventually,” Ian says, patting him on the shoulder. “Cool if we stay here tonight? I’m too exhausted to drive your drunk ass home.”

Lip nods, closing his eyes, as he lets himself sink deeper into the couch cushions. It’s not long before sleep takes him, the comforting noise of his family calming the storm building inside his head.

 

* * *

 

There’s a knock at the door. Lip tries to ignore it at first, but it only gets more insistent with each passing second. He jerks an arm out toward the coffee table, nearly throwing himself off the couch in the process, and picks up his phone.

_5:43AM._

“What the fuck?” he mutters, stumbling on to his feet. As he shuffles toward the door, he catches himself worrying it’s the cops coming for Carl again, but unless the kid has managed to dig his way out, that’s unlikely. There’s still music playing in the living room though. Maybe it’s bothering one of their new uppity neighbors.

“What?” he all but growls when he throws the door open.

“Lip?”

The voice sounds familiar. Lip has to blink his eyes a couple of times, but the face eventually comes into focus. His first thought is that he should’ve grabbed the bat. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks, stepping back slightly.

Iggy Milkovich holds up his empty hands. “Just looking for your brother, man,” he says. “Ian,” he adds, as if Lip has any doubt which brother he means.

“And what do you want with him?” Lip squares his shoulders and narrows his eyes, hoping it makes him look intimidating rather than completely ridiculous. “He got away from your fucked up family. I’m not letting you drag him back into whatever bullshit you’re dealing with now.”

Iggy glares at him. “Like you Gallaghers ain’t just as fucked up?” he spits. “You assholes, always looking down on us like you’re something special.”

“Yeah, let’s compare stats on how many members of our families are currently MIA or incarcerated,” Lip snarks. “Pretty sure we got you guys beat. And if we want to bring full-time jobs not involving meth into it then—”

“What fucking ever,” Iggy grunts. “I’m not here for you, man. Where’s your brother? He home?”

“He lives in North Side now.”

Iggy whistles, looking caught off guard by the news. “No shit?” he says, raising his eyebrows in a way that is eerily reminiscent of a certain other Milkovich brother. “He find a fancier fairy club to strip at then?” Lip moves to the slam the door in Iggy’s face at that, but Iggy catches it just in time and manages to overpower Lip to push it back. “Alright, bad joke, I get it,” he says, holding up his hands again. “Can you just give me his number? We don’t got a current one. The old one keeps saying it’s shut off or some shit.”

“What’s this about?”

Iggy hesitates and shuffles his weight between his feet. “Look, this is something your brother’s gonna wanna know about, alright?”

“And I’m just supposed to trust you on that, huh?” Lip snaps. “Tell me what it’s about, and I’ll decide whether or not I want to send you lot crashing back into his life.”

Lip doesn’t miss the way Iggy’s hands ball up into fists. He prepares himself for one of his arms to swing out, for the crushing weight of a fist against his face. Lip almost want him to do it, wants an excuse to lose his fucking mind. It’s been so long since he last got in a proper fight.

Iggy doesn’t hit him though. Instead, he takes a few deep breaths, relaxes his hands, and says the words Lip knew were coming. “It’s Mickey.”

“Of course it’s fucking Mickey.”

“Can you quit being an asshole for like two seconds?” Iggy sneers. “Mickey’s in bad shape, okay? He was doing real good in prison at first, but then our father got transferred back in to the same joint with him. Overcrowding or whatever. Everyone turned on him when Terry got there and—”

“He dying or something?” Lip means to sound glib, but he finds himself legitimately worried about the answer. If he could have his way, Mickey Milkovich would never enter their lives again, but that doesn’t mean he wants the guy dead.

“Nah, don’t think so,” Iggy says. “It looked bad for a while, but he's doing alright now. He’s still kind of out of it, on shit tons of drugs and shit, you know? But he’s asked for Ian a couple times.”

“That right?” Lip drones, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “You want Ian to go see him?”

“Don’t think he can. Just uh—what’s the phrase they use? Just—um, just real family?”

“Immediate family,” Lip supplies. 

“Yeah! That’s it!” Iggy exclaims. “But I thought he should know anyways. Mickey might be getting released early ‘cos of this. Not a sure thing and he only had like six months left to go anyways, but it’s something, right? Lawyer thinks we might even able to sue—”

“How the hell do you guys have a lawyer?”

“Think he smells money. Just showed up at the hospital one day, talking about all this stuff,” Iggy explains. “Don't think Mickey really wants to sue though, just wants to get the fuck out of there.”

“Well, shit,” Lip sighs, leaning against the door. He can feel his earlier contentment draining rapidly from him, leaving him deflated and defeated. This is the disaster he felt coming. Just as Ian is left vulnerable from a breakup, his old thug lover reappears to screw everything up. The last thing Ian needs is a convicted felon boyfriend to drag him down. _Stable. Good. Normal._ Three words no one would ever use to describe Mickey fucking Milkovich.

This all began because of Mickey Milkovich. Ian running off, joining the army, and falling apart while their lives went on. This all got worse because of Mickey Milkovich, who kept Ian tucked away inside his house as Ian’s mind unraveled a little bit more every day, refusing to let Lip and Fiona drag him to the doctor like they wanted.

“He’s got a boyfriend, you know.” The words spill out of his mouth before he even realizes he’s talking. “I mean, I just, I don’t know what Mickey—”

“It’s been over seven years, dude. Mickey ain’t a moron just ‘cos you think he is,” Iggy cuts in, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Don’t think that’ll change Mickey wanting to see him. Your brother’s gone to visit him a few times in prison, you know? They mighta talked about it already. The last time was only a couple months ago.”

“Wait, _what_?” Lip half shouts. “Ian’s gone to see Mickey?”

“Couple times, I think, not a lot. Last time he brought the kid with him though.”

“Fuck,” Lip mutters to himself. Svetlana had come to visit with Yevgeny about two months ago, right around when things with Abe and Ian started to go sour. Ian had spent the day with them, but he never mentioned having seen Mickey. Lip had been so sure they had gotten past this keeping secrets from each other bullshit.

“Look, they didn’t write poems or confess their love or nothing far as I know, so chill. Can you just give me Ian’s number?”

 _No, no, no, no, just fucking leave!_ That’s what Lip wants to scream in Iggy’s dumb fucking face, but he holds himself back. Iggy will just track down Ian on his own if Lip turns him away now. “Don’t know Ian’s number off the top of my head, and I have no clue where my phone is. Why don’t you give me your number, and I’ll have Ian call you?”

Iggy looks relieved at the proposed solution and nods his head enthusiastically. “Yeah, man, here’s my number.” The other man pulls an old cigarette carton out of his pocket and scrawls his number on the back. “Get it to him soon, ok? I’ll let him know what’s going on.”

“Sure, fine,” Lip mumbles, slamming the door in Iggy’s face before he can say another word. He saunters toward the kitchen, clenching the cigarette carton in his fist. He’s considering lighting up one of the burners and setting it on fire when Ian comes down the stairs.

“Jesus, you look like hell.” Ian grins at him, and Lip forces himself to offer a weak smile of his own. “Was someone at the door just now?”

“Just one of the neighbors,” Lip lies easily. “Complaining about the music being too loud last night. Told ‘em to fuck off." 

“What, seriously? These assholes wouldn’t know fun if it farted in their faces,” Ian grouses, as he swings open the refrigerator door. “Neighborhood’s gone to shit.” To Lip’s surprise, Ian pulls out one of the pies from yesterday, grabs a fork, and starts chowing down.

“You hungry or something?” Lip teases.

“I don’t even know, but I was dreaming about this fucking pie all night,” Ian laughs, mouth full. “Swear it didn't taste this good when I worked there. I’m gonna have to start visiting Deb more often."

Lip pulls out his own fork and joins in, letting out a low groan at how good the apple filling tastes. Ian smirks at him but doesn’t say anything. The two eat in silence for a while, occasionally catching each other’s eye across the counter and laughing. It feels good to see Ian like this. There had been a few long months where even getting Ian to eat plain toast was struggle, but now here he is, finishing off almost half of an apple pie by himself.

After he finishes, Ian burps and declares he’s going back to bed for a bit. Lip waits until he disappears around the corner of the stairs to look down at the number in his hand. Before he can overthink it, he finds himself standing and walking over to the trash can. It’s an easy thing, letting the cigarette carton fall from his hand and tumble into the waste. It’s an even easier thing to shove the empty pie tin over it, assuring no one ever sees it.

_Stable. Good. Normal._

_Make sure you don’t let go._

Lip isn’t letting go of Ian. Not this time. Not ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I love all of these characters, unfortunately all the characters don't love each other. Yet.
> 
> This fic will be canon compliant up to 6x01. I'll still be watching the new season, but this is already all mapped out and partially written, so nothing from that will affect this story.
> 
> There will be multiple POVs -- mostly Ian and Mickey with the Gallagher family and Mandy thrown in occasionally.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, thank you for reading!


	2. The New Hire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mickey?” she squeaks out. “Is that you?” There are tears in her eyes, and she’s not sure why. It’s just a lot looking at him, after all this time. It’s strange how one person can look so different and yet so familiar at the same time.

The sound of a baby crying wakes Debbie Gallagher. For a moment, she thinks it’s her own daughter, the one with Derek’s eyes and the most perfect button nose. For a moment, she thinks the blankets twisted tight around her are Derek’s arms. It’s just a moment, though.

“ _Shh_ , Sasha, it’s okay,” Debbie coos, reluctantly rolling out of bed and resting her feet on the cold floor. She stands and stretches her arms over her head before leaning over the crib to scoop the baby up. “Hey, lovebug, you’re okay, you’re okay,” she whispers, as she sways slightly, rubbing small circles into her back.

Sasha is a good baby, sweet and quiet like Liam had always been. It really isn’t much trouble sharing a room with her. Knowing that doesn’t stop the flash of resentment Debbie feels every morning she wakes up to find the old crib next to her bed again though. The crib Carl’s baby sleeps in instead of hers. It’s been over seven years since a nurse took Debbie’s daughter out of her arms, and she’s beginning to worry the open wound that day left in her chest will never heal.

Debbie had wanted that baby so badly. She thought a child would be the key to finally getting everything she had always wanted—a loving, supportive family, someone who put her first, someone who treated her like she was the entire world. Instead, Derek’s parents sent him away and she never heard from him again except for one measly postcard with sunny Florida on the front and a lame apology scrawled across the back. Instead, Fiona and Lip treated her like a stupid child, practically begging her to have an abortion, while Ian, the sibling she thought might actually understand, was too weighed down by his own problems to give much thought to hers.

So she did the only thing she could think of—she ran away. She packed a bag, found Monica’s number in Ian’s phone, and made just another terrible decision in what seems like a never-ending series of them. Monica wasn’t her first choice, but she was the only person Debbie could think of who wouldn’t immediately turn her into Fiona, not like Derek’s family or Sheila almost certainly would.

Every day with Monica and her creepy, meth-dealing boyfriend and their weird friends was hell, but she never broke and never budged. She never once even considered going home, not until she was far enough along that Fiona couldn’t make her have an abortion. But none of those horrible, sleepless nights really mattered, because Fiona had gotten her way in the end anyways.

_You already signed the papers, Debs,_ Fiona had whispered into her hair while Debbie sobbed and screamed and screeched for them to bring her baby back. _It’s for the best, I promise. You’ll see that one day. It’s for the best._

_It’s for the best._ That’s what they all told her, over and over and over again until it felt like the words had been tattooed on her bones. _It’s for the best._ The months with Monica had left her exhausted and vulnerable, and they used that to get into her head. They tricked her with stupid, bullshit stories of all the great things the future had in store for her. They tricked her by telling her how her child would be better off with a stable family, better off without her.

But when Bonnie left a screaming infant on their doorstep with a two sentence note explaining she was Carl’s, no one had given him shit. No one had yelled he was ruining his future. No one had insisted on giving her away to a better family. No, Fiona had just sighed wearily and said they’d figure it out like they always did. And then they set up the crib in Debbie’s room without asking, without fanfare, like seeing it there every day wouldn’t rip her apart.

Only Ian’s ever asked if she’s okay with it. Even in the hazy, drained state she had found him in when she finally returned home, he seemed to understand what she was feeling. It’s Ian who convinced her to have a closed adoption once she relented to Fiona and Lip. _We love too hard, Debs_ , he had whispered to her, as they sat on the roof watching the sun set. _It will hurt too much. Being able to see her but not have her._

Debbie blinks back tears and rests Sasha in the crib again once she settles. She runs a careful hand through the baby’s soft black hair and smiles at how much she’s starting to look like Carl. She worries about her younger brother all the time. She knows he’ll be fine in prison, that he practically runs the place, but she misses him and sometimes she fears he’ll never really come back to her. It kills her to think she might only ever see him again separated by glass with a phone pressed to her ear.

She shakes the thought from her head and walks over to her mirror. She dabs on the barest amount of makeup, just trying to cover the dark shadows under her eyes, and then throws on the first pair of clean-ish jeans she finds on the floor. On the way out of her room, she nearly trips over her Patsy’s Pies t-shirt and snatches it up. She sniffs one of the armpits and groans.

She walks up to the laundry chute but pauses before she throws the shirt down. It’s just a shitty gray t-shirt, worn around the sleeves with a ketchup stain near the hem. It’s too big on her now, but the new ones Sean ordered haven’t come in yet. She huffs out a laugh and flings it away from her. Was that shitty gray t-shirt what Lip and Fiona had in mind when they told her how much better off she’d be without her daughter? Was that shitty gray t-shirt the grand future they were talking about?

Fiona is in the kitchen when she comes down the stairs, slowly sipping at a cup of coffee. The newspaper is spread open in front of her, but Debbie can tell she’s not really reading it.

“You okay?" 

Fiona startles a little but smiles when she looks up. “Morning, Debs. You goin’ out?”

“Yeah, it’s my day off.” She grabs her coat and hat off one of the kitchen chairs and slips them on. “Wanted to get out for a bit. You can watch Sasha, right?”

“Sure, course. Got plans?”

“No, I don’t know, I thought I might go visit Ian. He has the afternoon off, I think.” She likes going to see Ian on days like this, when she has too much time on her hands and her mind starts to wander to dark places. Ian never pushes her to talk but always seems to understand anyways. Maybe it’s because he has wounds that won’t heal either. Maybe it’s because he knows how much living with Monica can fuck with your head.

“Great, that’s great!” she exclaims, a little too enthusiastically. “He sounded down when I talked to him on the phone last night and—”

“He might've just been tired, you know. He’s allowed to be tired,” Debbie cuts in, narrowing her eyes. It’s not a fair reaction. Fiona has plenty of reason to worry about him, but Debbie can’t help but feel protective of Ian whenever someone talks about him with that hint of fear in their voice. “All the college kids are starting to come back from break. The café’s probably been busy.”

Fiona nods, but Debbie can tell she’s not buying the explanation. “Sure, Debs. Either way, I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you. You want breakfast before you go?”

“No, I’m going to swing by the diner first. I’ll probably grab something there,” she says, wrapping her scarf around her neck. “There are some new hires coming in, and I want to scope them out. And Ian's obsessed with the apple pie now, so I’m going to try talking Sean into giving me a discount.”

Debbie catches Fiona flinch out of the corner of her eye, and she can’t help but feel guilty. No matter how hard she tries to avoid it, she always seems to slip up and mention Sean. The loss of that relationship is still a sore spot for Fiona, even after nearly two years. Not even Jimmy-Jack-Steve had this kind of effect on her. Debbie is about to apologize, but then she remembers the old crib and the baby who isn’t her baby sleeping in her room and decides against it.

“Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No thanks, I’m good.” The smile is gone from Fiona’s face when Debbie turns to fully face her, and she’s back to reading but not really reading the paper.

“Alright, well, I’ll see you.”

“Yeah, see ya, Debs.”

 

* * *

 

“Debbie Gallagher, everyone, coming in to work even on her day off!” Sean announces, holding his arms open as she walks through the door. “You going for a gold star or something? Because I’m sure as hell not paying you for extra hours.”

She rolls her eyes and stomps the snow from her boots on to the mat. She tries to feign annoyance, but she knows there’s a smile on her face. There’s an easiness to Sean she likes. She knows some of it’s manufactured, a necessary state of calm he enforces to keep himself from sinking back into bad habits, but it’s endearing. He had been good for Fiona, for a while at least. A grounding force to her chaos but with enough of his own problems not to make her feel like shit when she messed up. She’s still a little sad about their breakup, but she’s glad Sean never seemed to hold it against her, even promoting her to Fiona’s old job, Assistant Manager, a few months ago.

“Just stopping by for some of that famous Costco pie, boss,” Debbie says, resting her elbows on the counter. “Going up to North Side to see Ian. I told him where you get it, but he’s convinced it tastes better from here.”

“It sure does. The secret ingredient is love,” Sean teases. “Ian, huh? So one apple then, right?” He smirks when she tells him to make it two. “You gonna shake me down for a discount?”

“Was going to remind you how lonely it was for me sitting here on Christmas Eve, staring at empty booths, while you hung out with your—”

“Alright, alright, fine,” Sean interrupts, holding up his hands in surrender. “Half price, two for one. Best deal in town." 

Debbie snorts and digs around in her pockets. “Pretty sure it’d still be cheaper if I got them at Costco, but whatever.” She pulls out some money and is about to slap it down on to the counter when a face she had almost been convinced she’d never see again appears to her left.

“Hey, what’d you think of the kitchen, man?” Sean calls out, as the newcomer approaches. “I think you’ll really like working—”

“Mickey?” she squeaks out. “Is that you?” There are tears in her eyes, and she’s not sure why. It’s just a lot looking at him, after all this time. It’s strange how one person can look so different and yet so familiar at the same time. He’s leaner now, almost bony. There’s a mean look to his eyes Debbie doesn’t remember being there before. The Mickey she recalls was intimidating, sure, but she had never felt afraid of him, not like she might now if she didn’t know him.

Recognition comes to him more slowly. At first his eyes just narrow, like she had flipped him off or something. A moment later they squint and then widen, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. She knows she looks different now. Some of her freckles have faded, and her hair’s pulled back. She’s leaner too, and maybe even a little meaner looking. Mostly she looks older and more tired. But she can tell the exact moment he recognizes her, can see the spark in his eyes and then the panic.

“Goddamnit, I knew it. I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” Mickey mutters, ripping his eyes away from her.

“Are you—?” Debbie begins, but Sean cuts her off.

“Hey, this is Debbie, my Assistant Manager,” he says, looking back and forth between the two of them curiously. “But it seems like you two already know each other?”

Debbie scoffs at that. “Jesus actual Christ, Sean, are you serious? You know him too!” she snaps. “Your mind starting to go already, old man? You drove him up with us to see Ian at the army base, remember? Mickey Milkovich, Ian’s boyfriend.”

“Ex-fucking-boyfriend,” Mickey corrects.

“Oh.” Sean’s shoulders slouch, his normally straight posture collapsing slightly. “Oh shit, right, yeah. The boyfriend who went to prison for—”

“Ex-fucking-boyfriend,” Mickey repeats, voice raising.

“Shit, I’m really sorry, man. I’m such an asshole. I’m bad with faces.”

Mickey waves off Sean’s apology. “It’s been a long time. It’s cool. I should’ve said something.” He glances over at Debbie, and she can’t quite read his expression. “But I can’t do this.” He looks to Sean again. “It’s not you. This was just a fucking mistake,” he explains, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, man. Thanks for the opportunity and everything, but I—”

“Mickey, come on, don’t leave,” Debbie starts to plead, but Mickey throws up his arms and then marches past her. The door is swinging shut behind him before her brain can fully process what just happened. “Holy shit,” she whispers.

“I take it things didn’t end so well with them then?”

“I’m not sure. But knowing how Ian was back then, probably not, no,” she sighs, suddenly feeling restless. She feels like she should do something, like she should follow after him and try to talk to him more, but what the hell would she even say? I’m sorry my brother dumped you? Hope prison didn’t suck too badly? Sorry you were locked up for like seven years for something we did together, while I’m out here free doing fuck all with my life? “Ian doesn’t really like to talk about it.” Tears are still building in her eyes, threatening to spill over. She grabs the pie boxes on the counter, hoping to leave before Sean can see her cry, but he reaches over and grabs her arm.

“He really needs this job, Deb,” he tells her. His tone is serious and makes Debbie stand a little straighter. “I don’t want to say too much about it, because it really isn’t our business, but he just got out recently and my friend said he’s having a rough transition so far. He needs this job for his parole and—”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “Yeah, I get it. I’ll talk to him. Maybe we—maybe we could, um, work it out so he has opposite shifts from me? Or, I don’t know. I’ll talk to him. Figure it out." 

She takes off before Sean can say anything else, clutching the pies to her chest like a safety blanket. She runs down the street, the cold January air biting her skin. She glances around her as she goes, looking for any sign of him. Logically, she knows Mickey’s probably long gone by now. The El isn’t far from here, and even if he’s been out of South Side for a while, she’s sure he still knows these streets well enough to avoid someone if he wants to. She keeps running anyways though, just in case.

When she turns a corner a few blocks down from the diner, she gasps and stops short, nearly dropping the pies. Mickey’s standing there, pacing in front of an abandoned shop and smoking a cigarette like someone’s about to snatch it away from him.

“Please don’t turn down the job because of me.” She tries to keep her voice calm, so she won’t catch him too off guard. He stops pacing but doesn’t react right away. He’s staring down at his feet instead of her. “Look, I get that you probably hate me—”

“What?” Mickey looks up and raises one eyebrow. “Why would I hate _you_?”

“Um, because of the whole Sammi thing?” Her voice squeaks again when she says Sammi’s name, and she winces at the sound. “I should’ve, like, I don’t know, tried to be your alibi or something, right? But Lip said that could get me implicated too and that I should just keep my mouth shut. It’s not really fair though, is it?”

Mickey laughs at that. It sounds hard and a little bitter, but one corner of his mouth twitches up, almost like a smile. “You didn’t do shit, kid. You’re not the one who drugged her. You were what, like thirteen or something? Should’ve told you and the kid to go upstairs when I thought she was dead and did the rest myself. You didn’t need to see that shit.”

“I kidnapped a kid once,” she blurts out, without thinking. The confession earns her wide eyes and another almost smile. “Lured him away from a birthday party with a candy bar and just, like, stole him. We had to concoct this whole big complicated lie to give him back so I wouldn’t get in trouble.” He laughs again, and she laughs a little with him despite herself. “It’s not funny!” she exclaims, shaking her head. “It really isn’t! I kidnapped a damn toddler, on purpose! I’m not some innocent kid you scarred for life or anything. And I’m—I’m sorry for not—”

“Don’t gotta be sorry.” He throws his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. “Nothing you could’ve done anyways. They knew my family and had it out for me as soon as Sammi gave them the opportunity. Already had my dad and most of my brothers in prison, so why not complete the set, right? My public defender didn’t give a shit about me, and if the cops want to put you away badly enough and you don’t got money to fight it, you don’t stand a chance. You getting involved would’ve just made shit worse, trust me.”

“So you don’t hate me then?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, no I don’t fucking hate you. Alright, Strawberry Shortcake? We done with this?”

“Then why’d you run out like that?”

“You haven’t changed at all, have you?” he groans, lighting up another cigarette. “Still full of fucking questions.”

“I’m a pretty good boss, I think,” she says. “Everyone likes me. Well, everyone except Cynthia, but she’s kind of a cunt, so don’t listen to her.”

Mickey snorts and shakes his head. “Was worried I might run into a Gallagher here. Didn’t think it’d be you,” he mumbles around his cigarette. “Why you working there anyways? How old are you? Thought you’d be in college or some shit by now.”

She thought she’d be in college or some shit by now, too. But Lip’s the only Gallagher to reach that particular milestone so far. “I got pregnant, right around when you uh—when you went away,” she admits. “Ran off with Monica for a while. It messed me up.”

“Well, that sounds fucking familiar." 

Debbie chooses to ignore the comment and plow on. “Eventually went home and ended up giving the kid up for adoption. I tried to go back to school after that, but everyone hated me. I didn’t have any friends after Derek left, and I was too tired to beat up all the bitches giving me hell. I was miserable and I didn’t want to be there anymore, so I quit and got my GED and ruined my life.” She lets out a sigh and adds, “But I’m good at this job, and Sean’s great. I’m sure you’ll like—”

“Ain’t working for you, kid.”

That makes her angry. One, she isn’t a fucking kid anymore. She’s a mother, a boss, an aunt, a big sister. She works six days a week and pays bills and takes care of her brother’s lovechild. And two, maybe her life isn’t what she thought it would be, but she’s damn good at her job, and she wants him to know it. “I’ll be fair if that’s what you’re worried about. I won’t treat you differently because of the whole, well, you know. Sean dumped Fiona, and we manage to work together just fine. That’s what adults do, I guess. Manage.”

Mickey takes a long drag of his cigarette and looks down at his hands for a moment before speaking again. “Look, this ain’t about you, alright? I’m sure you’re fine. But I don’t need to be working where your brother might just show up.”

_Oh._ Debbie suddenly feels like an idiot. Of course this is about Ian. Why the hell would it be about her and her management skills? “He never comes around here anymore,” she assures him. “We used to do some family meals at the diner sometimes, but since Sean and Fiona broke up that’s not really a thing anymore.” Her mind races when Mickey doesn’t say anything right away, a thousand questions forming on her tongue and begging to be asked. “Or are you afraid I’d tell him where to find you? Is he looking for you? Are you trying to avoid him?”

“Yeah, no, pretty sure it’s the other way around,” he grunts, still looking at his hands. The letters across his fingers seem to have faded, almost looking more like smudges of dirt now. “He don’t want to see me, and I don’t want to see him, alright? That’s it. End of fucking story.”

Debbie frowns and finds herself wishing Ian was more willing to talk about Mickey, so she’d have at least some idea what’s going on in his head. “Did you two get in a fight or something?”

“Nah, getting in a fight would’ve been easier. I know how to fight with Gallagher. Would’ve at least made some fucking sense,” he mutters, scuffing his worn out boot against the sidewalk. “Look, kid, I don’t wanna—”

“Wait, have you seen him since you got out? Does he know you’re out yet?”

The question is met with another bitter laugh, but there’s no almost smile accompanying this one. It’s a strangled noise, filled with so much anger it makes her stomach knot. He opens his mouth, and she’s suddenly terrified of what he’s about to say. “He didn’t even mention me then? Me almost dying didn’t warrant a fuckin’ footnote in the Gallagher family newsletter? Good to fucking know.”

“Almost _dying_?” she shouts. “What do you mean? What happened? Are you okay? Did someone try to kill you? Did Sammi pay someone? When did it happen?” The words come out so quickly they start to bleed together into gibberish. “Wait,” she starts, before Mickey can even try to answer, “Are you trying to tell me Ian _knows_ you almost died and still didn’t want to see you? Because that really doesn’t sound like him. He even went to see Frank when he was dying, and he hates Frank.”

“Ah, there it is, there’s the Gallagher spirit,” he sneers, blowing smoke in her direction. “Always trying to cover up each other’s bullshit. Don’t know how I used to put up with you assholes.”

That sets her on edge, makes her teeth clench and her hands tighten around the boxes. She’s related to a bunch of assholes, sure, but they’re her assholes and they’re really trying now. They have real jobs—well, most of them anyways. And no one except Carl has been in trouble with the law for years now. No one gets to talk about them like that, not anymore. Plus, it’s not like Mickey comes from the Brady Bunch. She considers a less than kind crack about the Milkovich family but resists. Insulting him will only make him leave, and she needs to get to the bottom of this.

“Can you tell me exactly what happened?” she asks. “And, like, just as a warning, I’m not leaving you alone until you do. I have all day.”

A frustrated groan sounds from deep in Mickey’s throat, but he doesn’t walk away. He leans back against the boarded up shopfront and knocks the back of his head against the wall once and then twice. “You’re a nosy little shit, you know that?” he says, running his hand across his bottom lip. “My father and some of his buddies tried to off me in prison back in November. Not exactly a surprise, but apparently I ain’t easy to kill. Had to go to the hospital though. Iggy came by, and I asked him to tell your brother because, I don’t know, they had me on some heavy drugs and I’m a fucking moron, I guess. Iggy said he went by around Thanksgiving and talked to Lip—”

Debbie doesn’t hear another word after _Lip_. She doesn’t need to hear any more. The pieces fall together instantly. The knot in her stomach tightens, and she worries she might actually vomit right there on the sidewalk. This is the last thing her family needs.

Mickey seems to realize he’s lost her attention, because he starts waving a hand in front of her face. “Ay, earth to Peppermint Patty,” he says. “You’re the one who asked for the fucking story.”

“So he only talked to Lip?”

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Why?”

“Shit, just uh—just hold on a second. Don’t move.”

“Jesus, I got shit to—”

“I said just wait!” she practically shrieks. “Stay.”

“I ain’t your fucking dog." 

“Shit, hold these for a minute.” She shoves Ian’s pies into Mickey chest. He must be too confused by her rapid change in mood to argue, because he just takes them and raises his eyebrows at her again. Once her hands are free, she shoves them into her coat pocket for her phone. She goes into her recent calls and presses the name at the top.

_Ring._ “Ay, wait, who the fuck are you calling?” _Ring._ “I swear to god if you’re calling fucking Ian right now.” _Ring._ “Debbie fucking Gallagher, I am dead fucking serious.” _Ring._

She hears the click after the fourth ring. “ _Debs?_ ” Ian answers. “ _Look I’m still at_ —”

“Hey, Ian, did you know that Mickey's out of prison?” she asks all in one breath. There’s silence on the other end of the phone, and Mickey is staring at her like he isn’t quite sure whether he wants to run away or tackle her.

“ _Did you—? What are you talking about? He’s got another couple months at least until they’ll consider letting him out._ ”

“Well, he’s standing in front of me right now, so I don’t think that’s true.” More silence. “You heard that, right? I’m standing alone with Mickey Milkovich on a sketchy side street by the diner. Just wanted to get that on the record because he’s looking at me like he might kill me.”

Mickey scoffs and glares at her harder.

“His dad tried to kill him in prison,” she continues. It surprises her how casual her voice suddenly sounds, how sure she is that she’s got this right. “Could’ve died. Did you know that?”

_"What the hell did you just say?_ ” Ian shouts the question, causing her to flinch away from the phone. It must’ve been loud enough for Mickey to hear too, because his eyes move to the phone and start to widen a little. “ _Wait, he’s with you now? Is he alright? Can I talk to him?”_

“Did you know that?” Debbie asks again, more forcefully this time.

“ _What?_ _No, I didn’t fucking know. He didn't tell me. Jesus Christ, let me just go out back, I’m starting to freak the people at work out,_ ” he mutters, and she hears the shuffle of movement. “ _Can you put Mickey on?_ ”

“He didn’t know. Told you. No Gallagher bullshit here,” Debbie declares triumphantly. She holds the phone out to Mickey, and he looks at her like she’s trying to hand him a nuclear bomb. “Said he wants to talk to you.”

Mickey smacks the phone out of her hand before she even registers his arm is moving. It lands on the concrete with a crunch and the screen goes dark. The pies almost follow after it, but Mickey manages to catch them. “What the fuck?” he yells, voice strained. “What the—what the fuck were you thinking?”

Debbie doesn’t answer. Her jaw is hanging open, as she slowly reaches down for her phone. Holding it closer only confirms what she already knew. “Ugh, you murdered my poor, beautiful phone,” she whines. “Do you realize how much this cost me? How much cleavage I had to show to get enough tips for this shit? Damn it, Mickey.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he grunts. “If you agree to never talk about your fucking cleavage again, I’ll steal you another phone.” He pushes the pies back into her arms a little too roughly, and she stumbles back. “Though I don’t owe you shit after that stunt you just pulled,” he snaps, pointing a finger at her. “Jesus Christ. Why’d you have to do that?”

Debbie sighs and considers if there’s a way out of this situation without throwing one of her older brothers under the bus. “Look, a lot of bad stuff went down with Ian when you two were together and then even worse stuff after you broke up. Like, really, really bad stuff,” she begins cautiously. “And I’m not saying any of that was your fault. I’m really not. But Lip has gotten super protective of Ian lately. And Lip’s got his reasons for that, but he doesn’t always think things through when it comes to him, you know? Just kind of reacts. He’s too focused on keeping everything perfect and fine and dandy and—”

“You don’t think Lip told him. You think he lied to Iggy. To keep Ian away from me.” Mickey says the words slowly, but there’s certainty in his voice, like he’s just solved a great mystery. His face softens just barely, and he looks so much more like the boy Debbie remembers that she’d probably try to hug him if she weren’t carrying the pie boxes. “Fuck.”

_Lip’s a total idiot, but I’m sure he was just worried about Ian_ , she almost says, but she can tell that’s not what Mickey needs or wants to hear right now. “These pies are for Ian, you know,” she says instead, holding up the boxes. “He has the afternoon off, gets out in about an hour. I’m going up to see him, and I think you should come with me.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna—" 

“Come with me, please,” Debbie begs. She’s not sure why she cares so much. It’s been years since she last saw Mickey and seeing Ian with other guys in that time hasn’t exactly bothered her, but the idea of them hating each other makes her feel uneasy. They were something special once. She used to envy the way Mickey looked at Ian, and the way Ian’s entire face lit up whenever Mickey was around. Maybe things are too broken for them to ever look at each other like that again, but that doesn’t mean they need to end like this. There’s got to be something left to fix. “Please. If you see him in person, you’ll be able to tell for sure he didn’t know. You _know_ him.”

Mickey mutters something under his breath and shakes his head again. She’s sure he’s about to turn away from her and never look back, but he stays in place. After what feels like an eternity, he finally looks up at her again. The little color he had has drained from his face. His eyes don’t look mean anymore, just sad, and she hates herself a little for that.

The silence is heavy between them. The longer he goes without answering, the more doubt starts to seep through her. Who is she to interfere with Mickey and Ian’s relationship anyways? Who is she to force them to confront each other? Who is she to—?

“Fine. Where the fuck are we going?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next up is Mickey's POV (with details of all the times Ian visited Mickey in prison, as alluded to in the first chapter) and then Ian's. I'm aiming to post one chapter a week.


	3. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight is the number of times Ian Gallagher visited Mickey Milkovich in prison.

Eight is the number on the back of his old little league jersey. Eight is the number of cousins he has (that he knows of, anyways). Eight is the number of times his father’s been to prison (and there won’t be a ninth, because that fucker’s never getting out again). Eight is the number of years since he last saw his sister. Eight is the number of years he _thought_ he’d spend locked up. And eight is the number of times Ian Gallagher visited Mickey Milkovich in prison.

_Eight times_. It’s more than he expected after the first two times, when Ian could barely look him in the eye. He can probably still play each of those eight conversations, nearly word-for-word, in his mind. He might even be able to remember the color shirt Ian was wearing, how long his hair was, how his voice sounded.

_The first time was the worst._ Mickey hadn’t been convicted yet, but his bail was outrageously high and no rich friends were about to materialize to come to his rescue. The conviction was basically a foregone conclusion at that point anyways. No jury was going to believe him. He was just waiting to see if his harried public defender could work out some kind of plea bargain. His hopes weren’t high.

A few weeks after his initial arrest, Ian finally showed up. He was trailing behind Svetlana and Yevgeny with his head down and his hands balled into fists. He remained like that for most of the visit, speaking only when asked a direct question. Occasionally, his eyes would fly up and meet Mickey’s but then he’d flinch away like he’d just made some grave error.

Mickey struggled to make sense of it after they left—the fidgeting, the hard line of Ian’s mouth, the epic battle it was to get more than two words out of him at a time. Was Ian sick? Was he refusing to take his meds again? Is this just what normal people did after breakups? Was it really that hard for him to even _look_ at Mickey? The questions crashed around his brain what seemed like every second of every day until he was sure he was starting to go insane.

The tattoo was a mistake inspired by confusion and desperation. Ian liked grand gestures, didn’t he? Ian took him back after he tracked him down at the club, and Mickey could still picture the way Ian’s mouth fell open when he announced he was gay at the Alibi. Remembering the way Ian had smiled and kissed the top of Mickey’s head after the ensuing fight still makes his stomach twist in the best way. The needle hurt like a bitch, but he gritted his teeth as he dug it into his skin and pushed through the pain. Ian had always wanted to know what Mickey was feeling, and Mickey was determined to show him this time.

_The second time only left Mickey more confused_. It was more of the same—Ian not making eye contact and Mickey throwing out questions, trying to provoke any kind of reaction out of him. The only difference was an increase in hostility on Ian’s part.

_Yeah, Svetlana paid me._

_You tried to kill my sister._

There wasn’t any real bite behind the words though. Ian wasn’t meeting his eyes, wasn’t stubbornly jutting out his chin, wasn’t trying to tower over him, and wasn’t trying to push the familiar buttons he knows set Mickey off. If they were fighting, this wasn’t like any fight they had had in the past. It seemed like Ian was just halfheartedly reciting words from a script that no one bothered to give Mickey, and he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

It seemed to mean they were really over though. Mickey probably should have known that already, probably should have taken Ian’s doorstep breakup speech more seriously. _You can’t fix me, I’m not broken._ Mickey had wanted to tell him he never thought he was broken. Never wanted to fix him or change him. Just wanted to help him and make the hell he was going through a little easier. But he’s not sure Ian would’ve even heard the words. A wall had gone up between them, and it was made of more than just the dirty prison plexiglass.

That stupid, unbreakable wall came as such a shock to him. After all they had overcome together, Mickey just couldn’t fathom that Ian was actually leaving him. It’s easier to see where he went wrong now though. Terry Milkovich had always been the monster hiding under Mickey’s bed. Once that monster had been defeated, Mickey thought they were near invincible. Even when Ian spent a week in bed staring at a wall and turning away all food, Mickey was sure this couldn’t break them, not the two gay kids from South Side who stood up to Terry fucking Milkovich. But even if Mickey’s fiercest monster was dead, Ian’s was still very much alive. It was growing and clawing at the inside of his skull, so close and yet so unbearably far out of Mickey’s reach.

_Yeah. Yeah, I’ll—I’ll wait._

It was the only thing that seemed like a break from Ian’s script, a small crack in the wall. Mickey had half asked the question just to skip to the fucking ending of the shit show their relationship had become. It felt like a final push was coming, a death knell to everything they had meant to each other, and Ian was just waiting for the perfect time to deliver it. But if it were in Ian’s script, he had forgotten the words or chickened out, because it never came.

The conversation drained him. It left him feeling more lost than he could ever remember feeling. But it also left behind a tiny, pathetic spark of hope in Mickey’s chest. He knew the actual words were a lie. Eight years was a long time for an eighteen-year-old kid to wait, especially for a South Side thug he had dumped on his doorstep after running off with his batshit mom for weeks. But there was something to Ian not being able to tell him the harsh truth. There was something to him actually taking Mickey up on his permission to lie and not being able push him off that cliff.

The hope faded after a few months went by without another visit from Ian Gallagher. Svetlana said he was busy with work, but he knew she was full of shit. The hope kept fading more with each passing day until it started to harden into something mean and bitter and angry. He kept wondering what the fuck he had done to deserve this. They had always been there for each other in the end, even when shit got hard. Ian was there for him when he couldn’t even admit the truth of who he was to himself. The stubborn little shit kept caring for him and coming back even when Mickey pushed him away, harder and harder each time.

And then Mickey had done the same. He tried so hard to show Ian he had changed, that he could finally love him the way Ian always wanted. But apparently none of it was enough—picking Ian up from the cold ground outside the club, coming out to his father, sticking by him when his brain turned on him and he spiraled out of control.

It wasn’t enough. Mickey should’ve known he’d never be enough. Ian had ambition once. He was going to escape South Side and attend West Point. He was going to be an officer and wear a fancy uniform. He was going to be a fucking hero, fighting for his country halfway across the world. Maybe all of those dreams had been lost, but it wasn’t in Ian to stop dreaming. He’d find something else to pursue eventually, something other than a thug who’d now always be a felon, who’d probably never get out of South Side. What the fuck could he have to offer someone like Ian?

Coming to that realization brought Mickey to his lowest point. But, somehow, it’s also what made him finally start trying. He stopped pulling jobs for Svetlana. Instead, he started taking advantage of some of the less awful shit the prison offered—GED prep classes, anger management sessions, vocational training, a fucking library. He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to prove himself or Ian wrong. But he was trying. Even if Ian didn’t give a shit, he owed this to his son and Svetlana and Mandy if she ever showed back up. He wanted to be someone for them.

_The third time caught him completely off guard._ Just when he had finally accepted he might never see Ian Gallagher again, he walked into the visiting room expecting Svetlana only to see a flash of orange hair instead. His chest tightened at the sight, and it took everything he had not to ask the guard to let him go back.

As he walked to his seat, he started making a mental checklist of every grievance he wanted to air. He wanted Ian to feel like he had for the last year. He wanted to break through that fucking wall no matter what it took. He wanted this to hurt.

Every cruel name and bitter word died on his tongue the second he saw Ian though. Something was _wrong_. Seriously wrong. That much was obvious. Ian had all but wasted away since they last saw each other, just pale skin stretched over sharp, jutting bones. His hair was long and greasy, strands clumping wetly together and falling across his creased forehead. The shadows under his eyes were so dark, Mickey had almost mistaken them for bruises.

Ian looked up when Mickey sat down. The phone was already pressed to his ear, and his eyes were staring straight into Mickey’s. The sight knocked him breathless for a second. It was an incredible thing, actually seeing those eyes up close again and not having push to get them to glance up for only halves of seconds at a time. They were glassy and a little unfocused, but they were the same brilliant blueish-green Mickey still caught himself dreaming about sometimes.

Mickey grabbed his own phone, and Ian spoke first this time. “Hey, Mick.” His voice sounded hoarse and wet at the same time. Nothing more came after that—no apology, no explanation for where he’d been for a year, no explanation for why he looked like a fucking corpse. It made Mickey furious until he realized what was actually happening. Ian was waiting for _him_ to say something and set the tone for the rest of the conversation. His ex-boyfriend’s eyes were wide and almost looked afraid, and it made his stomach knot.

Their relationship had always been a power struggle, even at its best. Nearly everything had been on Mickey’s terms at first—when they fucked, where they fucked, the first time they fucked face to face, their first kiss—all of it happened when Mickey decided it would happen. Ian would hint at wanting more, throwing out little passive aggressive lines like _at least he’s not afraid to kiss me_ , but he never pushed too hard. He was probably afraid Mickey would leave for good if he did.

Everything shifted after the wedding from hell, when Ian had finally had enough and ran off. When he came back, everything had suddenly been on Ian’s terms. They were going to be a real couple, or they were going to be nothing at all. They were going to be free and open, or they were going to be nothing at all. Mickey had gone along with it all, pushing down the panic that erupted in him whenever Ian pushed for more. His father’s fists crashing into his face meant nothing as long as Ian was still his.

And now they were back here, with Ian sitting back and letting Mickey decide how the next ten or so minutes they had before the buzzer went off would go. The power had shifted again. It probably should have been a relief, but it just pissed him off. Maybe that’s why they had fallen apart, because they could never quite work out a way to be together without one of them constantly worrying one wrong move would spook the other away.

The silence grew deafening after a while. Mickey searched for the right thing to say. There were questions he wanted to ask— _Are you okay? What happened? What do you need?_ They all felt too kind though, like questions people who cared about each other would ask. Mickey wasn’t sure that’s what they were anymore, so he settled on, “You look like shit, Gallagher.”

Ian winced but didn’t break eye contact. “I’m uh—yeah, I know. I’m sorry about that.”

_That’s it?_ It was times like this that Mickey almost missed the way Ian used to ramble while in his manic states. It was easier to wade through that jumbled mass of words then to try to pull something from nothing. “Why do you look like shit?”

Ian just shrugged, running his freed hand down his face. “It’s um—it’s a really long story. I—I don’t really want to talk about me, if that’s okay. I’m always talking about me these days. I’m getting kind of sick of me honestly, but he won’t seem to leave me the fuck alone.” When Mickey didn’t react to that, Ian sighed. “How are you?”

“Dunno, in prison.”

Ian winced again, and Mickey felt a little guilty. He took a deep breath and tried to resist losing it the way he thought he’d want to when he saw Ian again. Now that they were sitting across from each other, with Ian actually _looking_ at him, Mickey just wanted to make it last. The sound of the buzzer was looming over the conversation, threatening to cut it short at any time. If they talked about everything now, Mickey might not be able to say what he needed to say. Or maybe it would all come out wrong, and Ian would never come back again. Mickey had never been good with talking about his feelings, after all. This wasn’t a conversation they could have with a time limit.

“So I stopped doing those uh—jobs for Svetlana.” He wasn’t sure why he wanted Ian to know that. Svetlana had probably already told him anyways, but it felt like a safe topic. Ian had smiled, and Mickey hated how good that made him feel. “There was too much heat on me. We Milkoviches got a reputation with the guards ‘round here. They were looking real hard at me, and I didn’t want to be in here until I was an old, geriatric fuck. Though then maybe you’d want to get back together.”

Ian snorted at that, looking surprised by the joke. The smile on his face grew a little wider, and Mickey felt his lips twitching up too. He had to force them back into a neutral expression. “I’m glad you’re uh—that you stopped with Svet. That was never you, Mick. Your family, maybe. But not you." 

_Yeah, well you don’t know shit about me_ , Mickey had almost snapped, but that wasn’t exactly true. If anyone really knew him, even after all this time, it probably was Ian fucking Gallagher. “I read a book. You ever heard of _The Great Gatsby_?”

“Course I have,” Ian had laughed. “Read it in high school. English was the only subject I wasn’t complete shit at, so I did most of the work. You read _The Great Gatsby_?”

“Yeah, try not to sound so fucking shocked.”

Ian looked a little sheepish and mumbled an apology. “You like it?”

“Yeah, I guess, whatever. Had to keep re-reading parts of it, but I think I got it. Could, you know, relate to him a little. All those stupid rich assholes,” Mickey grumbled. “Got all that money, and people still don’t think he’s good enough.”

“Yeah, well, you can take the boy out of South Side, but you can’t take South Side out of the boy, right?” Ian said, with a bitter laugh. “It’s like we got some sort of flashing neon sign on us. People just know white trash when they see it. None of us ever stood a fucking chance, did we?”

“Ian, you alright?” Mickey finally asked, unable to stop himself. “Seriously. Did something happen? You taking your meds? You really do look like shit.”

For the first time during the conversation, Ian looked away from him. “I uh—I fucked up pretty bad. Like really bad, actually, but I’m fine now. Back on the meds.” The hand he had on the table started to shake a little, but he quickly hid it on his lap. “Just uh—wanted to come by. Let you know I was fine.”

“Why? You thought you’d just show up after a _year_ to let me know you were fine? Why wouldn’t I think you were fine?”

“Just uh—I mean, if anyone tells you anything about me, just—” Ian paused and then let the thought hang there unfinished. “I’m doing okay. And I’m glad you’re uh—that you’re, you know, doing okay.” They fell into silence again after that, but Mickey could tell Ian had more to say, so he waited. “I won’t um—I won’t, shit. I’m living with Lip now, temporarily. Didn’t have much of a choice in it. It’s harder to get out here from there, and he watches me like a fucking hawk. Swear he’s bugged my phone or something, and he wouldn’t want me to come here. Not that I care what he thinks, but I just—I just don’t want to fight with him anymore. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to come by again.”

Mickey felt the anger start to flare up again. “What the fuck ever—”

“You can get letters though, right? That’s a thing?” Ian asked, hopeful, cutting off Mickey’s goodbye rant before it could even begin.

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey said, frowning. “That’s a thing. Iggy sends them sometimes. Can’t spell for shit. Must run in the family.”

“Well, keep reading Fitzgerald and maybe you’ll beat the odds,” Ian teased, and Mickey rolled his eyes. “Would you um—would you want to read them? If I sent you some? I’m supposed to start writing all the shit that goes on in my head down. I mean, I won’t subject you to that clusterfuck. But I thought it might be good, to write to you. If you wanted. Only if you want though. I can—I can fuck off, if that’d be better, for you.”

“No, man. Jesus, you can write or whatever,” Mickey said, trying not to sound too excited about the idea. “Gets fucking boring in prison. Put some dirty drawings in them or something. Don’t got shit to work with in here.”

Ian snorted again, shaking his head. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Mickey wished he could somehow see into Ian’s head, could gently crack it open and pull out the secrets hiding in there one by one. Something happened. Something Ian apparently wasn’t ready to talk about just yet.

“I really am sorry, Mickey,” Ian had all but whispered. “About everything. I know I fucked up. I couldn’t really see it at first, but when the meds started working, it all just—I could see it all better. I can finally see what really happened, and I’m sorry.” His eyes were watery, and Mickey had to look away to keep himself from tearing up as well.

“Okay,” was all Mickey said in answer. It’s all he could manage to say. Mickey might never be able to understand Ian’s disease, but he understood what he was saying now. He remembered the fear that would overcome him early in their relationship if Ian would touch him just a little too sweetly, would stare at him just a little too long, or hint just a little too strongly at feeling more than Mickey wanted him to feel. He would see his father’s scowling face, seize up, and lash out, shouting out the words he knew would hurt Ian most to make him shut up and to protect them both from the certain doom Ian was always casually trying to walk them into. It wouldn’t hit him until later, how much those words must have hurt. The panic would subside, letting him see it all clearly. It made him feel like shit, but it always felt like it was too late to apologize.

But Ian was apologizing. It wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t down on his knees, pleading for forgiveness or anything, but Mickey wasn't sure he’d want that anyways.

“I’m sorry,” Ian repeated, one of his fingers moving along the bottom of the glass separating them. “I wish I could—”

“We don’t gotta talk about it right now, man,” Mickey interrupted. The buzzer was still looming. It was bound to go off at any second. They didn’t have time for this, not if they wanted to do it right. “Just, you know, write your letters or whatever. And if you can get away from your asshole brother for the day, that’s cool. It’s cool.”

They said their goodbyes after that. Mickey walked away feeling like someone had finally knocked a crushing weight from his shoulders. Nothing was really fixed. Ian looked like hell and definitely wasn’t telling him something, and there was still that anger pulsing through Mickey’s veins. But at least things didn’t feel as completely fucked as before.

_The fourth time was uneventful._ Over a year had gone by since the last visit, but Ian had been sending letters every month and Mickey every so often even wrote him one back. They were nothing earth-shattering. Ian gave him book suggestions and talked about the hipsters destroying their neighborhood and complained about Lip nagging him. Mickey would tell him he had shit taste, even if he did enjoy some of the books, and tell funny stories about the moronic people he dealt with every day. Sometimes Ian would write vaguely about his disease and trying to get better. Sometimes Mickey would write vaguely about studying for his GED and trying not to fall back into old habits.

Ian looked better, and Mickey knew he looked worse. One of his brothers had started shit with some neo-Nazi guy, and Mickey was having a hell of a time going anywhere without one of those Aryan motherfuckers trying to jump him. There were bruises along his jaw, and one eye was swollen and purple. After Mickey grunted and waved it off, Ian didn’t try to ask what happened again.

They talked about books, and Ian updated him on all the shit people in the neighborhood had been getting into. It was a lot like their letters, but it was good to actually _see_ him again and know for sure he was getting better.

_The fifth time happened because of Mandy._ Another year went by before he saw Ian again. The usual letter he received at the start of the month hadn’t arrived yet, and it tipped Mickey off that a visit might be coming soon.

When he slipped into the booth and saw the serious look on Ian’s face, he found himself sitting a little straighter than usual. “What happened?”

“It’s not bad or anything, I just need to talk to you about something,” Ian had assured him, but Mickey didn’t find that particularly comforting.

If Ian was about to tell Mickey he met someone and that they couldn’t talk anymore, he didn’t want to fucking hear it. He would’ve preferred Ian just drop off the face of the planet again. They had an agreement. They didn’t talk about anything heavy, anything that could potentially open the floodgates of shit they still had to talk about. Not in their letters and not in person. They were maybe something like friends now, but he wasn’t about to sit here like a fucking girl and listen to Ian talk about boys. “Look, man—”

“It’s Mandy.” Mickey’s stomach had sunk at that. He tried not to think about Mandy the same way he tried not to think about Ian with other guys, assuming the truth of both was something he didn’t want to know. “She’s uh—well, she’s actually kind of great. I didn’t see her or anything, but she found Lip on Facebook and we ended up Skyping. She’s living in Florida now. She’s got a new boyfriend and a kid. Can you believe it? A fucking kid. I don’t think it was on purpose, but she’s happy. Her name’s Beth. I think she’s making Mandy sentimental or something, so she finally reached out. And the boyfriend’s got like a normal person job, and they just got their own house—”

“Mandy’s got a kid and a house?” Mickey blurted out. “ _Our_ Mandy?”

Ian smiled. “Yeah, our Mandy, putting the rest of us to shame. I just wanted to let you know she’s alright. She wanted to talk to you too. She didn’t know you were in prison and feels like shit. Said she was going to try—”

“No,” Mickey snapped, waving his hand back and forth. “You tell her not to come back here, not for me. Okay? She’s got a life now, and this place has a nasty habit of sucking people back in.”

“She just wants—”

“I’m fucking serious, Ian. Just let her live her life. Tell her not to come back.” Ian had nodded, and that was that.

_The sixth and seventh times were hardly the intense conversations Mickey always expected might accidentally happen when he saw Ian waiting for him._ Both times they held to their unspoken agreement to act like old friends instead of former lovers who had spent years tearing each other apart and building each other back up. They needed to talk eventually. But each time Mickey saw Ian’s face again, he decided he was fine with putting it off a little longer. Ian’s letters and occasional visits were helping to get him through this, and he didn’t want to risk burning the fragile peace down just yet.

_The eighth time Ian was standing behind Yevgeny, who was fiddling in his seat with the phone pushed up to his ear._ The sight of his son stopped him short, and he suddenly couldn’t breathe right. The last time he saw Yevgeny was almost two years ago, right before Svetlana left Chicago for good. He had sprouted up like a weed and his hair had darkened, making him look so much like Mickey that any doubts he still had about his paternity disappeared right there.

“Hey, kid.” His voice sounded thick, and he could feel tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. “Been a long time. You got big.”

“Mama says I’m going to be tall like her daddy was,” Yev said proudly, a grin splitting his face. “Not teeny tiny like you,” he added, with a giggle.

Mickey grinned at the sound of his son’s laugh and thanked gods he didn’t actually believe in that the kid didn’t seem scared of him. He let Yevgeny do most of the talking. The kid went on and on about school, about how fun math was, about how great his classmates were, and Mickey wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry with fucking joy at that. He had to press the heel of his hand against his eyes a couple times to keep any tears from spilling over.

After Yev had talked himself out, he and Ian switched places. “Keep your hand on my hoodie, okay, Yev?” he heard Ian say, as he lifted the phone from the table. “Don’t let go, alright?”

“How the fuck did that kid come from me and Svetlana?”

Ian looked away from Yev, who was dutifully hanging on to Ian’s sweatshirt as instructed, and laughed. “Hey, just because we all had shit parents don’t mean we have to be shit parents.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “I’m in prison, man. Not exactly father of the year.”

Ian just shrugged and kept on smiling, wrapping his free arm protectively around Yevgeny’s waist. “He knows you care, though. Svetlana reads him all your letters, and except for calling you short, I swear she doesn’t talk any shit. That’s more than you or I ever had.”

Mickey could only nod a little at that, not entirely convinced by Ian’s argument.

“You talk to a lawyer recently?” Ian asked. “Think you’ll be getting out soon like you thought?”

“Hope so,” was all Mickey said, and Ian didn’t push for more. Ian never pushed anymore, and Mickey was surprised how much that bothered him.

Eight years was steadily approaching, and Mickey wasn’t sure if that made him more excited or anxious. _Eight years is a long time, man._ It meant all the shit they had been putting off would finally have to happen, but Mickey found that didn’t scare him as much as it used to. Seeing Ian with Yevgeny, seeing them both smiling and healthy and okay made all the fears and doubts clanging around in his mind shut the fuck up for a second. He could handle this, getting out and trying to make a life again. He could do it right this time. He was sure of it.

“Svetlana’s sorry she couldn’t come in,” Ian told him. “She’s super pregnant and cranky, and these guards can get real handsy when you’re checking in. Her nanny’s with her outside. Can you believe she has a fucking nanny? Like, they pay her and everything.”

_Nanny? Pregnant?_ “Shit, she rent out her lady parts again?”

Ian’s eyes widened. “Oh crap, she hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what, man?”

“She’s uh—well, shit, she must have known this would come up, right? She’s uh—kind of getting married and—”

“Ah, there it is,” Mickey chuckled, shaking his head. “That explains the divorce papers. Lawyer said she just didn’t want to be married anymore, didn’t say anything about another dude.”

“Jealous?” Ian teased.

Mickey gave him an unimpressed look. “Have you uh—have you met the guy? He seem like an asshole? Don’t want the douchebag around my son if—”

“I’ve only met him once,” Ian admitted. “But he seemed nice enough. He manages a chain of convenience stores. But like nice ones, I think, not like the Kash and Grab, so there’s some actual money in it. And Svet wouldn’t be marrying him if he were horrible. She’s probably just nervous to tell you. Doesn’t want to jinx it or something.”

“Don’t know, man, she seemed to think my dad was a preferable option to me for a while.”

“She's not that person anymore, Mick,” Ian argued, sounding sincere. “She was pissed at you back then because things didn’t go her way, but you know she got over it. She wants Yev to have a better life than any of us did and she’s never tried to—”

“Jesus, okay, Gallagher,” Mickey cut in. “I get it. We grew up. We all grew up.”

“Yeah,” Ian agreed. “I think we did.” Ian reached out and pulled Yevgeny tight against him again when the kid started to move away a little. When Ian turned back to him and smiled, Mickey felt his heart start to race. He imagined shattering the glass between them. He could almost feel the softness of Ian’s hair under his fingers and the weight of Yevgeny in his arm.

“You wanna get dinner or something when I get out?” Shit, had he just said that? Did it sound like he was asking Ian on a date? What the fuck was he thinking? Hell, he didn’t even know if Ian was single. “Just to talk about some stuff or whatever,” he added, trying to save some dignity. “No big deal.”

The grin Ian sent his way was contagious. Mickey tried to stop himself, but soon he was smiling too, as Ian nodded. “Sure, Mick. I’d like that.”

“Good ‘cos you’re fucking paying. The food in here is shit. I need a fucking cheeseburger.”

That last conversation had left him feeling so sure that no matter what shit had happened between them in the past and no matter what shit happened between them in the future, that things could be okay again. At the very least maybe he and Ian could be friends when he got out. But then his father fucked everything up like he always did, and Mickey was sitting in a hospital bed waiting for some sign he hadn’t been completely delusional for letting himself hope, and then that sign never came. Ian never came.

 

* * *

 

“Ian spent a lot of time pushing us all away, you know.” Debbie speaks for the first time since they boarded the train. It shocks him out of the old memories, making him jump a little. “Sorry.” She taps her fingers across the top of the pie boxes resting on her lap and looks out the window across from her.

She seems willing to let them slip into silence again, but she’s managed to capture Mickey’s attention. “What do you mean?”

Debbie smiles, clearly relieved Mickey is talking. “I think he wanted us to stop caring. He shut down for a while and then he got sort of mean. Meaner than Ian’s ever been, anyways. He’d snap at us if we asked how he was. If we asked him anything really. He wanted us to stop giving a shit.”

“Why?”

“I think,” she starts, before pausing. She takes a deep breath and wraps her arms around the boxes, knotting her fingers together. “I think he maybe knew was going to try to—that maybe he’d do something bad, like our mom. Our mom always told us we’d be better off without her and then she’d leave. And she wasn’t wrong. We were better off. I think he thought we’d be better off without him too. Because he’s an idiot.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. The way her eyes have focused intently on the boxes on her lap makes him nervous. There’s more to the story than she’s telling him. “What are you trying to say, kid?”

Debbie bites at the corner of her lip and looks away from him. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she says quietly. “It’s not my story to tell. I just—I just want you to understand.” She looks up again and stares him down, like she’s trying to signal what she’s saying is important. “Lip isn’t evil, okay? An asshole, sure, but not evil. You have every right to be pissed at him for this, but if you tell Ian, they’re going to be at each other’s throats again and that’s not going to end well for anyone. Lip’s just afraid. After we almost lost Ian—”

“Wait, what the fuck does that mean? Almost lost him how?” Mickey practically shouts, earning him some dirty looks from the other passengers.

“Shit, shit,” Debbie mutters. “Just forget I said anything.”

“Yeah, no, that ain’t happening.” Mickey angles his body, so he’s facing her more. He can sense where Debbie’s story had been going, and the thought makes him sick. “Did he run off again?” Debbie stays quiet, and the dread in Mickey’s gut builds. “Did he—did he try to hurt himself?”

“Damn it, he’s going to be so mad at me for saying anything.” Tears start spilling down her cheeks. She sniffs loudly and takes a few deep breaths. People are openly staring at them now. They all probably think he’s a douchebag, making some poor girl cry.

“Alright, alright,” Mickey relents. “Don’t uh—cry.” He feels painfully awkward, but he tries to make his voice sound soothing. He reaches out and pats her briefly on the back, in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “I’ll talk to him about it myself. Just chill. I’m not gonna narc on you.”

Debbie laughs through her tears. “Sorry. I know I’m being dramatic. It’s just seeing you, it’s making me remember things.”

“Don’t worry about it.” They fall into silence again. Mickey tries and fails not to think about what Ian might have done to himself to leave his siblings so on edge. Their third visit slowly starts making more sense. Ian was trying to tell him something that day. _I fucked up pretty bad. Like really bad, actually, but I’m fine now._

The train comes to a stop, and Debbie tugs at his sleeve. He follows her off the car and then down the station stairs on to the sidewalk. They’re in a nice area, like really nice. There are clean people in nice clothes and nice coats with nice cell phones pressed to their ears. There are kids holding nice cups of coffee, all with nice backpacks or nice messenger bags.

“Ian works all the way out here?”

Debbie frowns at him. “He _lives_ out here. You didn’t know that?”

“Ian’s lives _here_? In North Side? Are you fucking with me?” He thought Iggy must have had that part wrong.

“Nope, he’s lived here for years. With Lip.”

Mickey groans. “He still lives with Lip? Thought that was temporary. You gonna force me to talk to that fuckhead, too?”

Debbie snorts and nods her head to the right. He takes the hint and walks that way with her, letting her lead. “Lip has class all day, and he usually goes to the library after that to work on stuff. He won’t be around until like midnight, so I think you’re safe.”

Ian had been living in North Side for years. How the fuck did he not know that? How the fuck did that not come up? Why had he been sending his letters to the North Wallace house for all that time?

They reach an intersection and wait for the little walking man to start flashing. When they cross the street, Debbie stops and leans against the wall of a post office. “What, you need a break or something?” Mickey asks, moving into the spot next to her.

Debbie points up to a sign that has the word _Rosa’s_ printed over an image of a steaming cup of coffee. “This is where Ian works. He started as a barista, but he got promoted to Assistant Manager. We kind of took the same path, if you think about it. Except Ian’s place is in North Side and the people he manages are college students instead of former drug addicts and ex-cons.”

Mickey can barely hear what she’s saying over the beating of his heart. Ian is in there, just a few feet from where Mickey’s standing. Ian’s living in North Side, managing a classy café, living a better life than they ever saw for themselves after Ian came home from the army. Mickey shouldn’t be here, in this place, in this life. People can sense he’s different already. He catches a couple students shoot him and Debbie looks as they walk by. It’s just like Ian had said all those years ago—it’s like there’s a flashing neon sign over his head, letting everyone know that he’s dangerous, that he’s nothing but white trash, that he doesn’t belong.

It had been good to hear about Mandy and Svetlana moving up and out of South Side, but now that he’s realizing Ian’s been on the same trajectory all this time, it’s starting to terrify him. Everyone he’s ever loved only managed to get their shit together after he was gone. Now they were free and doing well, and he’s stuck in Illinois for fuck knows how many years, pissing in a cup in front of his PO every week, and struggling to find even the shittiest of jobs to keep himself afloat. Had he been weighing them down this entire time? Would him coming back only fuck up the lives they had made for themselves in his absence?

“Goddamnit,” Mickey mutters, reaching into his jacket pocket for a cigarette. “I shouldn’t have come here. This was a bad idea.”

“Don’t say—” Debbie begins softly, but her voice trails off. She turns away and mouths something. Mickey tries to figure out what she’s saying until he realizes she’s not talking to him anymore. Bile pushes up his throat that he has to force himself to swallow back down. He knows exactly who’s going to be standing in front of the coffee shop when he looks up.

“Hey, Mick.”

The sound of his voice makes it hard to breathe. There’s no glass separating them anymore. There’s no guard standing in front of the door. The freedom is a little terrifying, knowing he could run away or run into Ian’s arms or just punch him in his stupid, beautiful face.

Mickey wills himself not to be a coward and finally turns to face his ex-boyfriend. Ian is closer than Mickey expected, close enough that Mickey could reach out and grab him if he wanted. He’s wearing a long black jacket that’s hanging open to reveal a red button down shirt tucked into tight, black pants. He looks professional. He looks good, too fucking good. His eyes are clear, his bright red hair cropped short and neat, and his cheeks are pink in the cold. He’s put on a little weight, but it looks great on him, because of course it fucking does.

It all makes Mickey realize how shitty he must look in comparison, and he can’t meet Ian’s eyes any longer. He lost a lot of weight during his recovery, and he hasn’t managed to gain it back yet. Getting skinnier is supposed to be a good thing, but it’s not a good look for him. It just makes him appear strung out and dangerous. Sleeping has been a struggle for a while too, so he knows there are dark shadows under his eyes. There are holes in his jacket, and there will soon be holes in his boots too. This isn’t how it was supposed to be when they met again outside the prison walls. Ian was supposed to still be in South Side, wearing that shitty gray jacket with the fake fur hood Mickey remembers. Ian isn’t supposed to look like he just stepped out of a fucking corporate office or something.

“Jesus, Mick, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know you were out. I didn’t know about any of it. I would’ve—I wanted to see you. I want to buy you that cheeseburger.” Ian’s voice is soft and hesitant, but it sounds so much clearer now than it ever did through the phone. “I’ve just been so fucking busy lately, and I got distracted, but I was planning on going up to see you next week, so I guess I would’ve found out then. I wanted to bring Yevgeny with me again, but Svetlana hasn’t been answering my calls. Oh, shit, are you why she hasn’t been answering my calls? Does she think I’ve been ignoring you? Fuck, this is all starting to make sense.”

Ian is talking so fast that Mickey can barely keep up with him. He makes himself look up again and just shrugs, because yeah, he did complain to Svetlana about Ian when they spoke on the phone last. Ian just nods back and sniffs. He had apparently started crying at some point, though it looks like he’s doing his best to stop. He can hear Debbie sniffling too, somewhere near them. “You uh—would you um—?” Ian lifts his arms and then drops them again, letting them hang limply at his sides. “You gonna punch me if I try to hug you, Mick?”

Mickey can't help but smirk. He shrugs again and looks down at his boots. “No promises, man.”

The faintest of laughs leaves Ian’s lips. His arms reach out cautiously, giving Mickey ample time to avoid the embrace. But Mickey doesn’t move away, doesn’t even try to convince himself he hasn’t wanted this for years.

Ian pulls him forward so that Mickey’s pressed against him and digs his fingers into the back of Mickey’s jacket. Mickey doesn’t move his own arms to return the hug, but he melts into the touch all the same. The tension in his muscles relaxes, as he presses his face into the crook of Ian’s neck. He might look like a dude from a department store catalog now, but he still smells the same. The scent sends him crashing back into a hundred memories all at once—of that time in his room when skin first touched skin, of subtly watching Ian behind the cash register at the Kash and Grab, of the fear and certainty he felt the first time he kissed Ian, of waking up to Ian’s naked body stretched out along his and not being afraid.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice shaking. “Ian.”

Ian holds him tighter. “Yeah, Mick,” he whispers back. “I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next up is Ian. I've almost finished writing that chapter, so hopefully I can post it soon.


	4. Going Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s hard to listen to him. It takes all of Ian’s strength not to clasp his hands over his ears and try to tune it all out like he used to do when Frank and Monica fought when he was a kid. His memory of the breakup feels like it belongs to a different person. Ian pulls it out sometimes, stares at it, turns it over, and pulls it apart, but never quite manages to make sense of it.

Memories are crashing over him like waves. Most of them are just quick flashes—Mickey grinning down at him in bed, Lip with his head in his hands at the hospital, Mickey with glassy eyes and a phone pressed to his ear, Fiona sobbing at the kitchen table, Abe holding up his stupid goddamn painting like it’s the eighth wonder of the world, Debbie tentatively putting her hand on his shoulder, Mickey’s boot crashing into his face, Mickey kissing him in the van in front of Ned’s house, Mickey letting out a strangled _I love you_ in front of the Gallagher steps. They are relentless and only further confuse the battle of emotions going on inside of him. He’s shifting from panic to relief to elation then back to panic at such an alarming rate, his brain has probably short-circuited.

This isn’t how it was supposed to be. After their last visit, Ian had come up with a plan. When Mickey got out, Ian was going to take him to the diner down the street from his apartment. It isn’t too clean or too stuffy like a lot of the places in the neighborhood. It caters to the drunk, cash-strapped college student population. The portions are too big, the tables too sticky, and the booths too orange, but Ian had a feeling Mickey would like the place. Especially since they’ll spike your drink if you ask nicely and slip them a couple dollars.

It was in one of those hideous orange booths where Ian planned on finally letting the apologies and explanations and secrets that had been building up inside him for years spill out. It's open twenty-four hours, so they would have been able to stay there for as long as it took to figure out how to move forward. And if Mickey started yelling at him like Ian feared he might want to, it’s not like the drunken patrons or exhausted waiters would really give a shit.

But they aren’t in an orange booth. They’re in his apartment, which of course is a complete fucking mess. Lip can’t be bothered to pick up after himself most of the time, and Ian’s been too busy lately to do it for him. Plus, it’s lunchtime, and somehow there’s no food in his kitchen. Slightly stale bread and cheese is all he’s got work with, but he can’t seem to find anything to cook it on. He’s sure there has to be a skillet here somewhere. Grilled cheese is one of the only proper lunch foods he feels confident in making, but it’s no longer looking like an option.

The apartment is supposed to be proof he’s finally gotten his act together, that he’s not the same person he was when Mickey went to prison. But as he stumbles anxiously around the kitchen, he knows he’s failing spectacularly on that front. Mickey probably thinks he’s a wreck. He wishes he could close his eyes and start this entire day over again.

Debbie and Mickey are watching television in the connected living room. Mickey keeps glancing over, his eyes quickly darting back to the screen every time Ian catches him. As much as he’d rather Mickey not witness his kitchen breakdown, he wishes they wouldn’t. Now that there isn’t glass between them, Ian thinks he could spend hours just reminding himself how blue those eyes are.

“Hey, you guys okay with cheese and crackers instead?” Ian asks. It makes him feel pathetic. He might have the North Side apartment now, but he’s hardly got his shit together. How the hell do he and Lip manage to survive with this little food? How can they call themselves adults? “And I’ve got some uh—cranberry juice, I think.”

“Why don’t we just eat the pie?” Debbie whines back.

“That’s dessert!”

“Ugh, fine. Whatever you have works for me!” Debbie calls back. “I’ll just have water though.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything. He’s been doing a lot of that. All Ian could get out of him on the walk over was a few grunts and shrugs. Debbie did most of the talking, rambling on and on about Patsy’s Pies and how much Mickey would just love working there.

Ian sighs and turns back to the kitchen. He puts together a sad display of crumbly crackers and a clumsily chopped cheddar cheese block with a questionable expiration date on a paper plate. He places it down in front of his sister and ex-boyfriend. Debbie smirks and Mickey raises his eyebrows at it. Ian can only do his best not to wilt in embarrassment. “I’ll um—be right back with the drinks.”

“You got beer?”

Finally hearing Mickey’s voice again is such a relief that he yells out, “Sure! Yeah!” way too loudly before he starts digging around the fridge. All they have is some Bud Light shoved in the back that Ian’s pretty sure Lip scared off a college freshman who mistook him for an RA.

“Like Lip wouldn’t have beer in the house,” he hears Debbie scoff, as he pulls out a can and two water bottles.

“He’s laying off it now actually,” Ian says, placing the drinks next to his sad little platter. Mickey raises his eyebrows again, at the beer this time, but cracks it open anyways. “Hasn’t had anything since the—” Ian pauses, glancing briefly over at Mickey before turning back to Deb. “Since, you know.”

“Lip got in a bar brawl,” Debbie explains to Mickey, who looks decidedly unimpressed by the information. “Broke his nose again. And someone smashed a glass on top of his head. He looks _rough_. Bet his students think he’s some kind of badass though.”

“Debs,” Ian hisses, “Come on. Don’t do that.” He can feel his lips pressing together and his chin jutting out. They all tease him for it, the signature Ian-Gallagher-is-pissed look, but being aware of the reaction doesn’t make it any easier to stop. They shouldn’t be talking about Lip like this, and Deb knows it. Lord knows they both hate when they catch their siblings going on about their problems behind their backs, especially in front of other people.

“Whatever,” Debbie grumbles, rolling her eyes. “Just saying.”

Ian settles into the armchair, which is as far away from Mickey as he can manage without it being obvious. It’s been years since they’d properly seen each other, but Ian still knows him, and right now Mickey needs space. He can tell by the way his beer-free hand is curled into a fist on his lap and how one of his legs is shaking that he’s just a push away from taking off. It reminds him so much of the early days, when navigating his relationship with Mickey was like walking through a minefield. Ian was always having to be careful, always having to poke around ahead of him to make sure it was safe to take another step without everything blowing to hell.

It still amazes him how much that dynamic changed after he returned home from the army. Ian had become the minefield, and no matter how hard he tried to trust Mickey, he couldn’t stop himself from testing his limits and threatening to burn it all down. The wedding had broken him for a while, and he had been determined not to let that happen again. So Ian pushed for all of the things he thought he could never have from Mickey, always half expecting the other boy to just walk away from him.

But he didn’t walk away. It’s Ian who walked away in the end.

The breakup is still a little hazy to him. He remembers desperately latching on to what Monica told him at the army base—that he was perfect the way he was, that he didn’t need those soul-sucking meds to be loved, but living with her made that harder and harder to believe. She never took the meds, and she was still the same hurricane she had always been, sweeping into her children’s lives at the worst times and leaving nothing but destruction in her wake. He was so wrapped up in her when he came home that Ian isn’t sure exactly what was going on his head when he told Mickey they were done.

He knew part of him, the best part of him, just wanted to save Mickey from it all. If Monica was anything to go by, Ian was never going to be the boyfriend Mickey seemed to want now—one who took his meds like a good boy, one who could stay and endure when things got hard, one who could promise not to leave again and actually mean it. Monica loved making promises she could never keep. Ian knew how easily her pretty words could get under your skin and how brutally it hurt when they all turned out to be lies. Even Frank, after so many fucking years, still fell victim to her whenever she bothered to come around. Ian didn’t want to put anyone through that. Ian didn’t want to be Monica, and he sure as hell didn’t want Mickey to be Frank.

Another part of him was really fucking angry because he knew they would never be like they were again. The disease changed them irrevocably. He didn’t want Mickey acting like his nurse. He didn’t want him to whisper it was okay when Ian lost his shit or to just pat his head when he fucked up and gently load him into his car to take him to the clinic again. Their relationship had always been a battle, both with each other and with the outside forces always threatening to tear them apart. But when all those monsters had been slayed and Monica’s genes turned him into a fragile little flower in Mickey’s eyes, the only place the battle remained was inside Ian. Their relationship might never have been particularly healthy, but it was theirs and it was beautiful and then it was gone, replaced with something Ian couldn’t recognize. He knew, logically, Mickey’s support should have made him happy, but it only left him restless and annoyed. He couldn’t decide if he hated himself for ruining everything or if he hated Mickey for treating him like something broken or if he just hated himself for hating Mickey.

And part of him just wanted everyone and everything to go away and leave him the fuck alone. He couldn’t stand it anymore, the way they all looked at him. He was used to being the reliable and quiet middle child, the one no one ever worried about too much. The one no one even really bothered to look for when he disappeared. Now they were all meeting behind his back to talk about his fucked up brain and what to do about it. Now he was the one they all stared at wearily and spoke to softly, like one wrong word would set him off into some kind of fit. If Ian was going to conquer this, he was going to do it on his own. This was his problem. They weren’t allowed to assume it as their own. They weren’t allowed to take that from him too.

Of course, that plan had failed miserably in the end. Ian successfully pushed everyone so far away from him that no one could see the warning signs. No one realized how far he had fallen until he crashed face first into rock bottom, shaking in an alley and pleading with his brother on the phone to come and save him.

Ian can recall almost nothing about that night. He’s not sure why he went to his old club with those pills in his pocket. Maybe he had planned on selling them? Or maybe he had always planned to swallow them in the bathroom with a bottle of tequila he stole from behind the bar and walk out into the alley to die. Maybe he just wanted to remind himself of how low the boy who once dreamed of being a West Point graduate had managed to sink so swiftly, maybe he thought that would make ending it all easier.

He’s a coward though, in a lot of ways. He couldn’t just sit there and fade way. He panicked and pulled out his cell phone instead, trying to take it all back. Lip insists pulling out that phone means he’s brave, and Ian really wants to believe him.

“Not hungry?” He’s grateful to hear Debbie’s voice. He’ll take any excuse to not have to think about that day. When he looks away from the television—what are they even watching?—his sister is staring Mickey down and pointing at the crackers.

Mickey snorts. “They had better food in prison.”

Ian feels himself start to blush. “Um—well, we could go somewhere? There’s a nice enough diner down the road from here. Good burgers. It’s pretty cheap too.”

“I got money,” Mickey snaps.

“Oh. Wasn’t trying to say you didn’t,” Ian mumbles. “Lip and I can barely afford this place. Don’t really have the money to take you guys somewhere nicer.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything but seems to soften a little. He looks down at the plate and takes one of the crackers, grudgingly biting into it. Debbie grins, and Mickey glares at her. Ian takes the temporary distraction as a chance to finally get a good look at him. He’s skinnier than Ian’s ever seen him. The old, worn out clothes that are from when they were still together are hanging loosely off of him. Exhaustion reads plainly on his face and in the way his shoulders slouch. But he’s still Mickey. And his eyes are still the bluest Ian has ever seen.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Did you not want to see me?” Ian knows he has no right to ask the question or to sound as hurt as he does, but he can’t stop himself. It had seemed like he and Mickey were getting somewhere during his visits to the prison. He thought for sure Mickey would find him when he finally got out. He didn’t know where they would go from there, tried not to hope for too much, but it never occurred to him that Mickey might not want to see him at all.

Mickey turns and scowls at him. “I don’t owe you a fucking thing, Gallagher.” The declaration comes out in a growl, hostile and mean, and he hates himself for getting a little turned on by it. That’s probably something he should talk to his therapist about.

There are a thousand questions he wants to ask, but he’s pretty certain Mickey isn’t in the mood to answer them right now. “Okay, yeah, you’re right,” he concedes instead. “I just—if you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to be here. I’m sorry if Debbie forced you or something.”

“Hey—” Debbie starts, but Mickey drowns out whatever she was going to say.

“If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t fucking be here!” he shouts, throwing up his hands. “You think your kid sister managed to drag me all the way over here against my will?”

Ian bites down on his lip and carefully considers his next words. “Okay, sure, okay. But do you maybe see why I’m a little confused here? I just want to understand what’s going on. You seemed surprised that I didn’t know you were out, but you never told me, Mick. And I thought we were doing better. It sounded like maybe you—”

Mickey’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Ian forgets whatever he was going to say. “You made me feel like I was worth less than the shit on the bottom of your shoes, Gallagher,” Mickey hisses, leaning forward and jabbing a finger at him. “You picked your fucking disaster of a mother over me. I told you I loved you, and you dumped me on the street. You threw me away after I waited around for your ass like a bitch. Then you just hung back and watched your batshit bastard sister chase me with a gun. If I don’t wanna to see you, that’s my fucking business.”

It’s hard to listen to him. It takes all of Ian’s strength not to clasp his hands over his ears and try to tune it all out like he used to do when Frank and Monica fought when he was a kid. His memory of the breakup feels like it belongs to a different person. Ian pulls it out sometimes, stares at it, turns it over, and pulls it apart, but never quite manages to make sense of it. Hearing about it is like waking up after drinking too much and listening to your friends recount all the stupid shit you said and did. It doesn’t sound like you. It can’t be you. But then the shattered pieces of your memory start falling back into place, never completely, but just enough that you know it’s true. You know that shit is inside of you, and all you can feel is a detached sort of shame.

He does his absolute best not to tear up, but his eyes are burning. It’s been nearly eight years. He’s an adult now, and he should be able to listen to this without falling apart. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to look in Mickey’s eyes. “I’m sorry.” His voice wavers, but he presses on. “I wanted to try to explain everything when I came to visit, but I was scared you didn’t want to talk about it or that it would just make shit worse. I’m so fucking tired of making everything worse for you, Mick.”

“Jesus Christ. Is that what you think?” Mickey shoots up from the couch, hands balled into fists. Ian’s sure he’s heading for the door, but he stops after just a few steps and starts pacing. “Why you always got it so fucking wrong, Gallagher?” he mutters, eyes focused on the floor. “Shit, this isn’t how this was supposed to happen.”

Well, at least he and Mickey could agree on that much. “So you did want to see me?”

“Of course I wanted to fucking see you!” Mickey roars in answer. Ian notices Debbie flinch. He’s surprised she hasn’t retreated to his or Lip’s bedroom yet. “It’s—it’s not my fault,” Mickey says. “I’m not the one who fucking lied.”

Was Mickey talking about him? Ian panics and starts wracking his brain for what he could be talking about. Did someone tell him about Abe? Does he know about the pills?

“Mickey, don’t, please.”

Ian whips around to look at Debbie. She’s shaking her head at Mickey, her eyes wide and distressed. “What did you do?” he asks his sister through clenched teeth, but she doesn’t even look at him. Paranoia starts building up in the back of his mind, already trying to push its way forward until it has consumed everything, until it’s the only thing Ian can feel. He hates this feeling more than anything. He hates knowing the people in his life are keeping something from him but being too afraid of being deemed crazy to say anything. “What’s happening?” Mickey just keeps staring at Debbie, and Debbie stares back. It feels like he’s not in the room anymore, and he wants to explode. “I swear to god, someone better start talking,” he warns. “What the hell is happening?”

“I’m not gonna lie to him, kid,” Mickey says in the same quiet voice he uses with Yevgeny sometimes. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” Debbie looks stricken. Ian feels his heart start to race when Mickey focuses his attention on him again. Whatever he’s about to say is going to hurt, and they all seem to know it. “Iggy went by your house to tell you I got hurt and that I was getting out soon. I asked him to. Wanted to see you. When I never heard from you after that, figured you stopped giving a shit. That’s why I didn’t come find you.”

“Did Iggy say he talked to me?”

“No.” Mickey sighs and runs a hand down his face. “No, he said he talked to Lip.”

His heart is pounding now, smashing uncomfortably against his ribs. “What?”

“Iggy talked to Lip, and Lip didn’t tell you because he wants me to stay the fuck out of your life.” Mickey laughs, but it’s not a pleasant sound. The twisted smile on his face sends a chill down Ian’s spine. Mickey lifts up his arms and motions around the apartment. “And I don’t blame him,” he says, shaking his head. “I really don’t. Look at this fucking place! Look at this fucking neighborhood! Jesus, you did it, Ian. You got out. You got better. Without me. All it took was me finally getting out of your—”

“That’s not true,” Ian snaps before he can finish the thought. “That’s not true at all.”

“You’ve got a good life, and I ain’t gonna pretend like I belong in it,” Mickey says, his voice calming slightly. It makes Ian nervous. There’s something about the tone of his voice that makes everything sound final. “I never should’ve come here. Your brother’s a dick, but he’s not wrong. I was never good for you.”

This is starting to sound too much like a goodbye. Ian launches forward and grabs at Mickey’s arms, completely forgetting his earlier decision to give him space. “Don’t fucking say that,” he pleads. He leans in so close their noses are almost touching. “You’ve got all of this wrong. Seeing you again after—after what I did, it made me want to be better. I wanted to prove I could have something like you and I had again. I wanted to prove I wasn’t my fucking mother. I wanted to prove I could have a life, that I _deserved_ one. That I didn’t have to be fucking toxic to anyone who dared to give a shit about me. I wanted to prove I was worth something. I—I thought you’d be proud of me.” Ian’s voice cracks on those last words like a teenage boy. “This place isn’t usually such a mess, I swear. Lip’s a fucking slob sometimes depending on his workload, but I—I clean. I go to the grocery store too, but I’ve been busy and—”

Mickey is staring at him with wide eyes, and he can feel Debbie’s hand cautiously touching his shoulder, like she’s trying to ease him back from a ledge. “ _Shh_ ,” she whispers, mercifully putting an end to his rambling. It all leaves him feeling so incredibly embarrassed that he just wants to hide and curl up into a fucking ball. He’s supposed to be an adult now, but he’s acting like a desperate child. He releases Mickey’s arms and takes a step back. He pulls a hand through his hair and doesn’t protest when Debbie wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the back of his arm. “We’re all proud of you, Ian,” she says quietly, so only he can hear.

Ian isn’t sure how long they all stand like that. It’s not until Mickey mutters something under his breath that Debbie releases him. Ian runs his sleeve over his eyes and breathes deep to calm himself back down. “Sorry about that,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Christ, all you two do is say sorry,” Mickey complains, running his hand along his bottom lip. “Don’t gotta keep saying sorry. I ain’t as mad as all that probably sounded anymore. I didn’t—I don’t think any of that came out right, okay? But I can’t be here anymore. I can’t fucking breathe in here. So I’m gonna leave, and you’re not gonna follow me. Got that, Gallagher?”

Mickey doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns on his heel and takes off toward the door. Ian follows after him, because he’s never been very good at taking orders. The Army would happily attest to that. “Wait! Just wait a second!” He barely manages to avoid getting smacked in the face by the door when Mickey flings it open. “Just hold on a second, Christ. When’d you get so fucking fast?”

“What?” Mickey snaps, turning back around so quickly that Ian nearly runs him over.

“Am I going to see you again?”

“Jesus, Ian.” Mickey’s mouth untwists and settles into a gentle frown. After a few jerky and ultimately aborted initial attempts, Mickey finally rests a hand on Ian’s elbow. His thumb starts moving back and forth over Ian’s upper arm. “Yeah, come on, ‘course you’ll see me again.” There’s fondness in his voice, and Ian wants to wrap the sound around him like a blanket. “I just need time to fucking think or whatever. If we keep talking right now, we’re gonna fuck this all up, and I don’t want that, okay?”

Ian hates space when it’s not his idea. Ian hates time to think, because thinking’s never done him much good. It tends to just lead to wallowing. The doubts and fears that have been living inside him since his diagnosis will seize any moment of weakness as an opportunity to grow and wrap themselves around his mind like weeds. If he keeps moving and keeps pushing forward, he can almost forget they’re there. But Mickey’s not wrong. In fact, taking time to think probably would’ve saved them from a lot of shit as kids. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “I won’t follow you. Promise.”

Mickey smirks at him and gives his elbow a squeeze before letting go. “Not what you wanted to hear, Gallagher?”

Ian shrugs. “Can’t change some things, I guess.”

“We’ll talk,” Mickey assures him. “Soon. Just—just let me come to you.”

“Sure, yeah, okay. Yeah, I can do that.” Ian’s not sure if he’s trying to convince himself or Mickey of that. “Whatever you need.”

Mickey’s still smirking at him, like every word coming out of Ian’s mouth is bullshit. “Alright then, Gallagher,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, I'll see you around." His feet remain glued to the sidewalk, as Mickey walks away from him. “You look good, Mick!” he yells out, just as Mickey goes to turn the corner at the end of his street. Mickey looks back at him with a smile—a real fucking smile, flips him off, and disappears.

 

* * *

 

Debbie is leaning against the back of his couch with her arms circled around her middle and head bowed when he walks back inside. “Do you hate me?” she mumbles to the carpet.

Ian groans and shuffles over to her. He’s too exhausted for another heart-to-heart, but he can’t stomach how upset she looks. He cocks his head to the side and holds his arms open. It only takes her a moment to push away from the couch and wrap herself in them. “No, of course I don’t hate you,” he says, resting his head on top of hers. “You’re my sister.”

Debbie jerks away from him. “And Lip is your brother.”

“Don’t. Not right now.”

“He loves you, Ian,” she continues anyways, because he’s not the only Gallagher shit at taking orders. “He loves you even more than the rest of us. Just don’t lose it right away. Hear him out first. Maybe he’ll apologize.”

“When has he ever apologized in his life?” Ian argues. Debbie opens her mouth to answer, but Ian doesn’t want to hear it. The day is only halfway over, and he feels completely drained. It’s already killing him that he knows Mickey’s out there, but he might not see him for days, weeks, even months. It’s already killing him that he knows he won’t be able to stop himself from losing his shit the moment Lip walks through the door. And that Lip will probably just take Ian’s fury as further confirmation he’s crazy and can’t take care of himself. “Stop,” he pleads, holding her shoulders. “Can we just go to lunch and hang out? I’m about to pass out, and those crackers aren’t going to help.”

“Or we could just eat the damn pie, you know.”

“God, fine,” he says, grinning. Ian dashes over to the kitchen, grabs the last two clean forks from the drawer, and returns just as Debbie is flipping open the cover of the first pie.

They eat quietly for a while, as a television show neither of them is paying attention to plays in the background. Ian tries not to think about Mickey or Lip and mostly fails, so he directs his brain toward one his less dire problems instead. “I really have to stop doing this.” He throws down his fork and leans back in the armchair, hand on his stomach. “Next time I ask for pie, tell me no. I’m getting fat.”

“Oh my god, if you’re getting fat, I’m an elephant.” A fork smacks into the side of his head and then clanks against the floor.

“Jesus.” He reaches up and uses the back of his hand to wipe away the crumbs from the side of his face. “Enough with the violence.”

“You don’t really think you’re getting fat, right? Lip says you go to the gym like five days a week, which is seriously absurd. I count my walk from the El to the diner as exercise.”

“No. I don’t know, maybe. It’s so hard to lose weight on this fucking medication.”

“Oh, I’m sorry you’re not a Greek god anymore,” she mocks. “Excuse me while I cry for you.”

Ian snorts and flips her off. “You’re the one who brought my ex-boyfriend around with like zero warning. Could’ve stalled him or something, let me clean up my damn apartment. Look at this place! I’m allowed to be insecure about my ass for a second.”

“Oh, whatever,” she grumbles, waving a dismissive hand at him. “Don’t be such a drama queen. You do remember the Milkovich house, right? Pretty sure you and Lip leaving some dirty t-shirts around isn’t going to scare him off. And pretty sure he still likes your ass just fine. Couldn’t stop staring at it when you were in the kitchen making this _delicious_ lunch,” she says, frowning at the crackers.

“Really?” Ian’s a little annoyed by how weak his voice sounds, but he doesn’t worry too much about it. This is Debbie. If anyone will understand the war going on inside his head right now, it’s her. When they love, they love hard, even if they try to pretend otherwise. He knows she still keeps Derek’s stupid apology postcard hidden under her bed. She knows he still has one of Mickey’s shirts in his room. She doesn’t know he’s kept every letter Mickey’s written him over the years in the drawer of his desk though. Only Fiona knows about those.

“Yeah, Ian, pretty sure he’s always going to like your stupid ass just fine.” Debbie smiles at him before hopping up and taking both pies to the fridge. Noise starts coming from the kitchen, and Ian suspects she’s loading their dishwasher. God, he and Lip really need to get their shit together. “How are you feeling about it all?” she calls over the din. “You think there’s still something there?”

There’s always been something there, ever since Ian went barreling into Mickey’s room with a tire iron demanding Kash’s gun back. There would probably still be something there even if Lip’s stupid plan had actually worked, and they never saw each other again. First loves are tricky that way. They never really go away completely.

“Ian? What’s going on in there?” Debbie appears in front of him, waving a hand in front of his face. “Give me something. Seriously, I’m dying here. It was all so dramatic!”

“I don’t fucking know, Deb. I’ve never really let myself think too much about it,” he admits. “I’m surprised he even wants to be around me after all the shit I pulled.”

“I’m not asking about _him_ ,” she says. “I’m asking about _you_ , my brother. What are _you_ feeling? You have refused to talk to me about this for way too long. I’ve told you fucking everything about my exes. We are going to sit here and we are going to talk about boys, even if it kills you.”

Ian rolls his eyes and considers how to even begin to answer her question. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Debbie. There are just too many memories and too many emotions currently competing for dominance within him. It’s hard enough to wade through all of it himself, let alone put it into words for his little sister without sounding like a lunatic.

Debbie puts a hand on his forearm. He knows he has to give her something, especially after what she’s done for him today. He opens his mouth, not totally sure what he even plans on saying, when the sound of a key twisting in the door causes Ian and Debbie to freeze up. The panic on her face pisses him off. He hates that look. He’s seen it on the faces of everyone he loves at some point. That look that says they think he’s about to freak out, that he’s not capable of controlling himself. “Please, Ian. Please just don’t.”

The door opens. Ian closes his eyes and tries to keep his breathing normal. He’s furious, and he’s hurt. Everything else he had been feeling fades away, and suddenly those are the only two emotions left. He can feel the rage building inside him at just the thought of his older brother. He grips the arms of the chair and tries to count to ten, desperate to stay in control. He wants to prove that scared look on Debbie’s face wrong. He wants to prove Lip wrong.

“Yo, Ian, you home? I brought lunch! Got your favorite.” There’s a shuffling noise, probably Lip taking off his shoes and coat. There’s the crinkle of a paper bag and then footsteps that stop abruptly in the living room. Debbie’s hand slides across his shoulder and rests on the back of his neck, her thumb brushing over the base of his skull. “Shit. What the hell happened?”

“Lip, I think—”

“Don’t, Debs,” Ian interrupts softly. “This is between us.” He shakes out his clenched hands, stands, and then open his eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

Lip narrows his eyes and looks him up and down, like he’s searching for the problem. Because Ian always seems to be the fucking problem in his brother’s eyes. “Christ, Ian,” Lip sighs. “What did you do this time?”

“Shit, Lip, really?” Debbie groans.

That's the last thing Ian hears before his mind goes blank. Counting to ten goes out the window along with any resolve he had to prove his siblings wrong about him. He storms across the room so quickly, Lip doesn’t even have time to drop the bag of food. He doesn’t care if Lip thinks he’s fucking Monica come again at that moment. All he wants is to feel is his fist crashing into his brother’s smug face. 

_Crack_. He drops his fist at the last second, so it collides with Lip’s ribs instead of his already mangled face. The next punch lands on his brother’s gut, causing him to double over and moan. Ian catches him again on the arm, as Lip wraps them around his waist. “Fight back, you asshole!” Ian screams, pushing Lip and sending him stumbling back into their counter. “You’re such a big man! You’re so much better than me! So fucking prove it. Fucking fight me, you fucking coward,” Ian sneers, getting in Lip’s face. “Go on,” he goads. “Hit me!”

“No,” Lip spits, looking down at his feet. “I’m not going to hit you, Ian.”

The declaration only makes Ian angrier. They all tried to tell him he could still live a normal life after the diagnosis. They said he just needed to try and get his meds worked out. But his life is never going to be _normal_ , not the way he wants it to be. He and Lip never pulled punches as kids. They would come at each other like animals until their ribs hurt too much to breathe or the blood gushing from their noses made it too hard to see. They would collapse on the floor and laugh and throw their arms around each other, stumbling into the bathroom to try to clean themselves up before Fiona got home. Now Lip won’t even touch him, too afraid of hurting poor, broken Ian.

“Fuck you,” Ian hisses. “I’m your brother, not your fucking child. You don’t get to decide who I can and can’t have in my life.”

Lip looks up at him, still clutching his ribs. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know what you did. Mickey’s been out of a prison for over a month, and I didn’t see him until today because of _you_. He thought I didn’t give a shit about him anymore because of _you_. Where the fuck do you get off? Who the fuck do you think you are, Lip?”

“Shit,” Lips breathes out. He slowly moves away from Ian, leaning against the arm of the couch instead. “How’d he find you?”

“I found him at the diner, and I brought him here.” Debbie is glaring at Lip with her arms crossed in front of her chest. “You had no right, Lip.”

“Oh, Jesus, you’re mad at me too?"

“I don’t get it,” Ian says, calling his brother’s attention back to him. “Why’d you do it? You didn’t think I could handle seeing him again or something? You think I’m that weak?”

Lip pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes and shakes his head. “Look, Ian, you are the strongest person I know. I know you’re not going to believe me, but I mean it,” he begins, extending a hand between them. “But you’re too good. You don’t know how to cut these people out of your life.”

“ _These people_?”

“Mickey. All of the fucking Milkoviches. Your friends from the club. Fucking Monica. All they do is drag you down. They’re a fucking cancer, but you can’t just cut them out, because you don’t even see what they do to you.” Lip takes a deep breath. “But I see it, and I couldn’t let it happen again. I was so relieved when I thought you weren’t going to see Mickey anymore. But of course you were. Of course you were lying to me again. That’s all you do. Lie.”

“I never fucking—”

“It’s a lie of fucking omission,” Lip sneers, standing up and pushing Ian in the chest. “Keeping all that shit to yourself. Insisting everything’s fine when it’s not. That’s called _lying_.”

“You don’t get to turn this back on me!” Ian shouts, pushing him back. “Maybe I don’t tell you everything, but you— _you_ , of all people, know how important Mickey is to me. I don’t understand why you would do this. You almost ruined everything.”

“It was already ruined, Ian!” Lip yells. “I know you like to build up your history with that guy like some great South Side love story, but it’s not. He’s a thug who fucked with your head and then got himself thrown in prison. He’s no good for you, alright? You’ve come so fucking far, and you deserve better than him. You got out, and he’s going to drag you right back.”

There are tears in Lip’s eyes, but Ian can’t bring himself to care. “So, what, you think Mickey comes back into my life and I just throw everything away? My job? Therapy? The meds? It didn’t occur to you that all of that might make him happy? That this is what he wanted for me too?”

Lip throws up his hands. “He wanted to help you, Ian, I get that. I’ve always gotten that. But he has no fucking clue how to take care of you.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of!”

“Of course you do!”

Ian’s hands start shaking. He wants nothing more than to punch Lip again, this time not sparing his face no matter how bruised up it already is. He walks past his brother instead, letting his shoulder smack into Lip’s on the way by. When he reaches his room, he takes out his gym bag and begins stuffing clothes inside without giving much thought to what he’s actually grabbing. He just wants to get the fuck out of there before he loses it again.

“Let me help.” Debbie appears next to him and eases the bag out of his hand. She folds some clothes and lays them neatly inside. She then puts his meds inside a Ziploc bag and rests them on top, all while Ian watches on, unable to move.

“So you’re just going to fucking run away again? We can't talk this out? Classic Ian Gallagher,” Lip mocks from the door. Ian grits his teeth and keeps his eyes focused on Debbie packing. “No, I’m sorry, classic Monica Gallagher,” Lip amends. “Like mother, like fucking son.”

“Stop it,” Debbie snaps at Lip. “Don’t you dare.”

“You two have no idea how much like her you are.”

“And you have no idea how much like Frank you are, douchebag,” Debbie fires back. “Ian’s coming home with me for a while. Try to get your shit together and stop acting like the biggest asshole who’s ever walked the planet in the meantime, ‘kay?”

It feels like he’s not in the room again. They continue sniping at each other like he’s not there, and maybe he isn’t. He can’t even hear them anymore. There’s just static in his ears. It’s too much all at once, and he feels himself shutting down. It’s an old defense mechanism to keep himself from doing something stupid. When Debbie grabs his arm, he doesn’t protest, just follows her to the front door while Lip continues to shout from somewhere behind them.

He doesn’t even realize that Debbie has somehow gotten his coat back on him or that they’ve made it to the El until he’s sitting down and the train is lurching forward. The gym bag is resting on the floor in front of his feet, and Deb is holding his hand. “You doing alright?” she whispers. “Sorry, I kind of lost it in there.”

Ian shrugs. His eyes skim over the people around them. It’s not a busy time of day for travel, so there aren’t many. An old woman blowing her nose. A young couple giggling at something on the man’s phone. A middle-aged man in a suit and tie snapping at someone on the other end of his Bluetooth headset. A couple of young students not speaking to each other, probably hungover. He wonders if they can sense that he’s different. He wonders if they can see the dirt and grime that still clings to him beneath his nice coat and ironed slacks. He wonders if they know how close he is to losing it.

“Hey, Ian, you okay?”

“No.”

Debbie wraps an arm around his back and pulls him closer to her. She rests her head on his shoulder. “I should’ve grabbed the pie before we left. He doesn’t deserve it.”

Ian chokes out a laugh. “Whatever. Let him get fat instead of me.”

Debbie chuckles a little and rubs a circle into his back. “You gonna be okay eventually?”

“Sure, ‘course.”

“You think you still love him?”

Ian furrows his brow. “Who? Lip? Jesus, he’s still my brother.”

“No, Ian,” she sighs. “Mickey.”

“Oh. Right.” Ian straightens himself out and leans his head against the window behind him. “Yeah, maybe, I don’t know. Maybe. In a way.” She stares at him, and he knows she’s waiting for more. “I don’t think I ever really stopped loving him, Debs. I just hated myself. A lot.”

Deb’s mouth twists and she nods. “Well, no more of that, alright?”

Ian does his best to smile. He wants her to believe him, even if he doesn’t believe himself. “Sure, Debs. I’ll try.”

 

* * *

 

The old bedroom looks the same as it always did, even if only Liam and Chuckie live in it now. Their clutter looks the same as his and Lip’s did as kids—comic books, empty soda cans, crumpled up magazines, scribbled-on notebook paper, and candy wrappers. There’s also an empty beer bottle and a blunt Fiona would be pissed about if she spotted. He and Lip were better at hiding their shit.

His bed feels the same too when he throws himself down on it. The blankets smell like smoke and stale beer. There are still army posters on the wall no one has bothered to take down. Debbie is singing along to some whiny music down the hall, and Fiona is downstairs making him a sandwich he doesn’t actually want. Ian tries not to think about how Lip is probably at their apartment patting himself on the back right now, reveling in just how right he is. One conversation with Mickey, and Ian is right back to the place where he started. Lip will be so fucking pleased with himself, he won’t even realize it’s him not Mickey pushing him back here.

He feels his bed dip a little and opens his eyes to see Fiona sitting on the edge. “It’s PB&J,” she says, nodding to a sandwich sitting on his nightstand. “Always makes me feel better.”

“Don’t think a sandwich is going to fix this.”

“Gotta start somewhere, right?” she says, smiling. She puts a hand on his cheek and taps it gently. “Come on, mopey. It’s just temporary. Everything will be fine.”

Ian almost laughs. Living with Lip was supposed to be just temporary too, and look how that turned out. “I’m fine, Fi. Really.”

“Yeah, like hell you’re fine.” Fiona pokes him in the ribs until he gets the hint and scooches closer to the wall. She lays down next to him and clasps her hands together on top of her stomach. “I just washed these damn sheets. Why do they still smell like cigarettes?”

“We smoked too many for too long,” he answers. “No bargain detergent from the Kash and Grab is ever getting that shit out.”

“Hey, I get our bargain detergent at the grocery store now,” she laughs. “Us Gallaghers are really moving up in the world."

They rest in silence for a while, with only Debbie’s shitty music filling the house. It feels nice to hang out with his older sister again. Laying down with her like this reminds him of sleeping in the back of the car with her and Lip as kids. He doesn't remember much from that time, mostly just being cold a lot and Lip always holding his hand. Usually, it was him and Lip huddled together with Fiona off to their side, he thinks. She probably liked having her space since they never got much of it. But on really cold nights, sometimes she’d snuggle in on Ian’s other side. She rarely clutched at him like Lip would, but she would press her arm against his back so he’d know she was there if he needed her.

“Thank you for hiding the letters for me.”

Fiona turns slightly to look at him. “Mickey’s letters?”

“Lip would’ve lost his shit if he saw them. Thank you for not judging.”

“You think I got any right to judge anyone when it comes to relationships?” she laughs, nudging his shoulder. “I’d have to be the biggest hypocrite in the world.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t stop Lip, does it?” He can sense she’s about to say something, so he adds, “But I don’t want to talk about him right now.”

“Alright, we don’t gotta,” she says, patting his arm. “We don’t gotta talk about anything at all, if you don’t want to. It _is_ good to have you back, though. You know that, right?”

“Thanks, Fi. It’s good to be back.” And it surprises Ian how much he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And thank you for all of your comments and support! I really appreciate it.
> 
> Next up is an interesting POV that I'm a little nervous about, but it should hopefully be fun.


	5. A Beautiful Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memory has been a fickle bitch lately—sometimes plaguing him with vivid recollections of shit he’d pay good money to forget, and sometimes making everything go dark and hazy to the point where he can’t even remember which of the kids running around the house are actually his. It’s become sort of a game to him, digging through the beer-soaked, crumpled up photo album in his head to try to produce the right answer. There are entire months of his life missing from that album. Frank is sure those were the best months of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning, there are mentions of child abuse and an animal death in this chapter. They are memories and brief, but I just wanted to give everyone a heads up.

Frank Gallagher’s head is pounding. It feels like a thousand tiny elephants are stampeding over his neurons and then smashing into the sides of his skull, over and over again. It doesn’t seem fair to suffer from such a spectacular headache without having even a drop to drink. A proper night of drinking can make it feel like a burly young lumberjack is splitting your head in two with his axe the next day, but it’s never anything more alcohol can’t solve. This headache though—this shitty, meaningless wicked bitch of a headache borne of exhaustion and the pungent body spray Chuckie insists on dousing himself in every morning—will require a more creative solution. A glass of water, some coffee, and a handful of whatever painkillers Fiona's got in the cabinet ought to do it. And maybe some weed if he can find any more stashed under Chuckie’s mattress.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you! I’m never trying to hurt you. Look, I’m sorry if you’re pissed or whatever, but I was just trying to do what’s best for you and this family.”

“God, you can never just admit you’re wrong. And you do realize you’re not actually apologizing, right? You’re doing that whole I’m-sorry-that-you-think-I-should-be-sorry bullshit. And who put you in charge of this family? Why do you get to decide what’s best for us?”

“Because you all can’t stop sabotaging yourselves!”

Frank halts on the stairs and groans, barely resisting the urge to stomp his feet in frustration. It’s too early for anyone else to be up yet, even Fiona, who gets up at the ass crack of dawn these days. Is one moment of peace away from his constantly whining litter of children really too much to ask for? He’s not sure which two are going at it now. Their voices are hushed and barely intelligible from this distance. They’re fighting in harsh whispers. It’s a skill all of his children seem to possess—how to fight without waking the others. They certainly didn’t learn that from him and Monica.

He strains to make out who they are and if the water and painkillers are worth dealing with them. The bushy-haired one, Debbie, has been nagging him like she’s his fucking mother lately, always moaning about how he needs to start pulling his weight around the house. The ungrateful little brat has apparently forgotten she owes him her entire fucking existence.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious!”

The voices sound familiar, but he can’t place them yet. It’s hard to remember who they all are even when he’s staring directly at them these days. Memory has been a fickle bitch lately—sometimes plaguing him with vivid recollections of shit he’d pay good money to forget, and sometimes making everything go dark and hazy to the point where he can’t even remember which of the kids running around the house are actually his. It’s become sort of a game to him, digging through the beer-soaked, crumpled up photo album in his head to try to produce the right answer. There are entire months of his life missing from that album. Frank is sure those were the best months of all.

“You’re such a hypocrite, Lip.”

_Lip?_ Ah, good old Phillip. Now that’s interesting. That one doesn’t even live here anymore last Frank checked. If the smart one has driven all the way from wherever he resides now so early, this might actually be a fight worth listening to. Frank carefully creeps to the bottom of the stairs and decides his headache can wait for now. When he rounds the corner into the living room, he sees his eldest son glaring up at the quiet, redheaded one, who is using his superior height as an intimidation tactic. Frank hates when people do that to him.

“And you’re not?” Lip flings out his arms and pushes him, but the freckled one hardly budges, still towering over his older brother like the tall asshole he is. “You were always blabbing on and on about what a mistake Karen was. About how she wasn’t good enough for me. You once told me she was like cancer for fuck’s sake.”

The gay one stubbornly juts out his chin, and Frank scoffs. Clayton always used to do that when he was being a pissy little bitch. One time, Frank stole an old beater and drove the little prick to Lake Michigan instead of school for his birthday. There was snow on the lake, and the sun was in just the right place to make the entire place sparkle like they were in a damn movie. It was beautiful, but all Clayton did was stick out his chin and whine about missing some math test. Education is a fucking racket anyways, but that kid could never see reason. Frank still remembers the beating his mother gave him after the brat told on him. More than half of his memories seemed to have fucked off at this point, but that one is intent on sticking around.

“But I never tried to keep her away from you! I never got involved!” the gay one—is it Alan? No, shit, Ian, it’s Ian—whisper-shouts back. “And, Jesus, Lip, Mickey is not Karen. Mickey did everything he could think of to help me when I fell apart, and I dumped him for it. You did everything you could to help Karen, and she ripped your heart out and took a shit on it. Hell, if anyone’s the fucking Karen in this situation, it’s me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“No, it’s fucking not. It’s not at all.”

“Yes, it is. She was crazy, and guess what, so am I!” Ian holds open his arms and gestures to himself. “Fucking crazy. Batshit. Certifiable.”

“Shut up, Ian. You are _not_ crazy,” Lip insists. “Look at everything you’ve accomplished. You just need _stability_ , okay? Mickey isn’t stable. He’s been in jail most of the time you’ve known him! And that asshole messed with your head for years. Do you not remember that week you could barely get out of bed after he got engaged? Do you not remember getting trashed and crying at that fucker’s wedding? Do you not remember why the hell you ran away from us in the first place? Because I fucking do.”

Frank settles on the couch and picks up a slice of old pizza sitting on the table. The name they keep saying sounds familiar. _Mickey._ He shuffles through the muddled memories sloshing around his brain until he finds a scowling face sneering at him in the Kash and Grab. Ah, yes, _that_ Mickey. Terry Milkovich’s always pleasant son who secretly liked Frank’s son’s dick up his ass. Frank’s surprised he’s still a topic of conversation. He figured the kid would be dead by now or at least following in his father’s footsteps as a professional inmate.

“Okay, sure, do we wanna talk about all the shit I did to him now?” Ian hisses, leaning in close to point a finger in Lip’s face. “Do we wanna talk about how I kidnapped his fucking child? Or do we wanna talk about how I cheated on him with people I didn’t give a shit about? I wasn’t even attracted to any of them, that’s the fucked up part. I just did it. No reason at all, really. Just did it. Sort of like Karen, huh? Do we wanna talk—?”

“Come on, Ian, don’t. Stop it, please,” Lip says, lifting a hand to cover his eyes. “Stop it. That’s not you anymore. You’ve changed. You know that.”

“Do _you_ know that? You can’t say I’m a big boy now one second and then treat me like a child the next fucking second!” The gay one’s voice starts to raise above the angry-whisper threshold, and Frank winces. The last thing he needs right now is for that stupid baby—who the hell does that one belong to anyways? Fiona?—to wake up and piss off the painfully sober stampeding elephants further.

Frank grudgingly hauls himself off of the couch, throws what still remains of the pizza slice on the floor, and saunters into the kitchen. The two of them go stiff and stop talking the moment they spot him. They all do that, like he actually gives a shit what they’re talking about. “I’d watch yourself, son,” Frank says to Lip, as he grabs a cup from the cabinet. “The crazy one can probably kick your ass. Bigger than you, my boy. It’s just biology.”

He leans over the sink, expecting that to be the end of it. At the very least, they’ll take their bleating outside where they’ll be less likely to wake the mystery baby up. Frank’s presence has an impressive way of clearing a room at the Gallagher house. That’s why it surprises him when a hand suddenly grabs his shoulder and whips him around so that his back is pressed against the edge of the sink. “What the _fuck_ did you just call him?” Lip grabs the front of Frank’s shirt and pulls him forward. “What the fuck did you call him?”

“Lip, come on, he’s not worth it,” Ian sighs. “Just let him go.”

Lip doesn’t let him go, just leans in closer so that he’s scowling right in Frank’s face. Frank holds up his hands in surrender. “Listen to your brother, son. Don’t want to join him in the nuthouse, do you?”

“Oh, you piece of shit. You fucking miserable, worthless piece of shit. If you _ever_ call Ian crazy again, I will kill you and no one will ever find your fucking body.” There is fire in his son’s eyes. The way his fist tightens around Frank’s collar makes him almost believe the boy. Frank’s instinct to run kicks in, and he tries to wiggle away, but Lip just pins him back harder. “Did you hear me, Frank?”

“Stop, Lip. We’re gonna wake everyone up.” Ian’s voice is gentler now. He grasps Lip’s shoulders and lets one hand slide down his brother’s arm until its resting over the hand tangled in Frank’s shirt. “I don’t give a shit what he says, okay? He’s not worth this.”

“No, I’m so sick of it, Ian. I’m not gonna just sit back and let him treat you like shit anymore.” Lip shrugs off Ian’s arms, and the redhead rolls his eyes. There’s a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips though. Ian might be annoyed by the display, but Frank can tell he appreciates it. The expression mystifies him. He can’t remember any of his brothers ever looking at him like that, with that kind of _fondness_ , especially not after a fight. He can’t remember any of them ever standing up to their parents for one of the others either.

It’s perhaps yet another gift he has given his children, aside from the great gift of life, of course. Peggy Gallagher was a master manipulator. She knew how to give just enough love amidst the relentless abuse to keep her children on her side. She slowly but surely turned them all against each other, making certain they’d come running to her if one of the others ever fucked up. He and Monica, on the other hand, had never put that much effort into controlling their children. Instead of turning on each other, his kids united and turned on their parents. They should all be thanking him for his neglect, not threatening him and shoving him up against sinks.

“If you give a shit about any of us, which I highly fucking doubt you ever did, but if you do, you should care about Ian the most.” Frank flinches, as Lip’s mouth twists into a snarl. “Because Ian’s the only one who _chose_ you. The rest of us are stuck with you. But Ian had the chance to disown you and never spare you another thought again. But here he is, still thinking of you as his dad.”

“Lip, please stop—”

“You remember the DNA tests?” Lip asks. “I know your mind has gone to shit, but you must remember that Ian’s one of your brothers’ biological kid because Monica can’t keep it in her pants." Frank has a vague recollection of that day—they were eating together for some reason, the whole lot of them—so he nods. If he’s cooperative, maybe Lip will let him go so he can deal with this godforsaken headache and go about his day. “Well, we tracked down Clayton after that. You remember Clayton, don’t you? Your brother? Ian’s real father?”

Frank just nods again, mostly because he’s afraid Lip’s going to punch him if he doesn’t. But he’s not really surprised Clayton is Ian’s father. Aside from the obvious physical similarities, that snitch always had a hard-on for Monica and wanted to get his hands on everything that was Frank’s.

When they were still in junior high, Frank had found a stray dog hiding under the train tracks. It was a mangy thing with shaggy blond fur caked with dirt licking at an old, mostly empty beer bottle. One of his buddies had joked it was like the dog version of Frank. He didn’t even care that it was meant as an insult, because he loved that stupid, filthy creature at first sight. Frank took Frank the dog home with him that night, hid him in the shed out back because Mother was allergic to dogs, and brought him out some food and water and a beer for them to share.

Of course, as soon as Clayton found out, he wanted the dog to be his. He wanted to feed him shit like oranges—who feeds a dog oranges?—and name him something gay like Rover. Frank had told him to fuck off, and he went running to Mother like he always did, crying about Frank not letting him play with the doggie. The always fair Peggy Gallagher solved that problem by shooting Frank the dog in front of them and warning them to never bring another oversized rat near her house again.

“He had a real nice house out in North Side. Real nice house. Nice yard. Nice car in the driveway. Pretty wife. One kid. Perfect family. Guess someone taught them how fucking birth control works,” Lip sneers. “If I were Ian, I would’ve moved in there without a second thought. I would’ve disowned you as my father and never looked back. I would’ve convinced that guy to give me my own room and pay for my school trips and send me to whatever fucking college I wanted, and I never would’ve thought about _you_ again.”

Frank starts laughing, he can’t help it. It’s probably going to get him a black eye or two, but the irony is just too damn funny, too sweet. The kid he sees the most of himself in is the one most desperate to get away from him. “Too bad you’re all mine then, son,” Frank mocks. “Never gonna escape that.”

“But not Ian,” Lip continues through clenched teeth, ignoring Frank’s comment. “No, Ian told me to fuck off when I suggested it. Ian said this was his house and we were his family and _you_ were his father no matter what the DNA test said. Ian had the chance to get out of this shithole and never look at your ugly face again, but he stayed here. Didn’t even want to meet with Clayton a couple times a month to try to get some money out of him. He could’ve used that money for college or whatever the hell he wanted. Fuck knows you never gave us a damn cent. So next time you want to call him crazy or put your hands on him or ignore him at the dinner table, you fucking think about that. He’s the only one who _chose_ your ass.”

Frank feels a strange twinge in his gut. He hates this feeling. They tried to drill it into him as a kid, the Catholic guilt, but it never quite stuck. Some of his Irish Catholic brethren live with the feeling every day, the constant stomachaches and anxiety over having done something wrong. Poor, brainwashed bastards. That’s why they all feel the need to confess so damn much, as if that makes any of the shit they’ve pulled go away. As if that makes them any better than him. But he’s not immune to the sensation. It creeps in sometimes, winding its way around his organs and squeezing tight. It’s always been temporary, quickly remedied with a few beers. He’s not sure how to make it go away now though. Fuck, he really needs a drink.

“You got nothing to say? Really?”

“Stop it, Lip.” Ian repeats the same move from earlier, putting one hand on Lip’s shoulder and the other around the fist holding Frank down. “Just let him go, man. It really doesn’t bother me.” This time it actually works. Lip’s shoulders relax and he eases his grip on Frank until he’s finally free. Frank springs away from them and brushes off his shirt.

“Ingrates,” he mutters to himself. “Have no goddamn respect for your elders.”

“Oh, I’m going to kill him,” Lip growls, but Ian catches him and pulls him back.

“Come on, it’s okay. He’s not worth waking everyone up over. I’m fine.”

Ian’s still got his hands on Lip’s shoulders, and it seems to be going a long way toward calming him down. The scowl on Lip’s face softens until the boy almost looks sad instead of angry. “How long are you going to torture yourself here, Ian?” he asks softly. “Just come home. We can work this out.”

“Being here isn’t torture for me like it is for you.”

“I didn’t fucking mean—”

“I know what you mean, and I don’t blame you. I’m just saying I don’t feel the same way.”

The angry-whispering from earlier is gone and replaced with something gentler. They sound so obnoxiously fond of each other. Frank wishes they’d go back to fighting, because this is just sickening. Brothers aren’t supposed to be like this. Brothers are for stealing your shit and kicking your ass and apparently sleeping with your wife.

“You ever coming back?”

“Depends. You ever gonna say you’re sorry?”

“God, you’re such a girl sometimes.” Lip knocks him away, but there’s no real heat behind it. It almost seems playful. “Fine, I got to get to class. Spend your day with this asshole, if you really want to.” Lip glares at Frank, and Frank sticks his tongue out at him. “I hear you say shit to him, I’m coming back here and ending you, got that?”

Lip blows past him and out the back door before Frank gets a chance to lecture him on just who the patriarch of this family is. The absence of his eldest and meanest son suddenly leaves him alone in the kitchen with the crazy one who’s not really his son. Ian has turned his back to Frank, as he mixes something, seemingly content to ignore his father’s existence. But that annoying feeling in Frank’s stomach is starting to get worse, and if he can’t suppress it with alcohol without rotting his second liver, he’s going to have to try a different method.

“What are you making?” Frank shuffles over and hops up on to his toes to look over Ian’s shoulder. “Smells good.”

“Blueberry pancakes.” Ian doesn’t look at him or appear to have any plans to elaborate.

“Chocolate chip are better. When I was boy—”

“The kids need some fruit in their diet,” Ian interrupts, staring intently down at the bowl while he speaks. “Even if only in their pancakes.”

Frank snorts and shakes his head. “No, no, no. That’s all a big lie, you know! The food pyramid! All bullshit! Invented by our government to take more money out of our pockets. Why do you think that supposedly healthy shit is so expensive? The human body can adapt to get its nutrients from—”

“Look, Frank,” Ian snaps, finally moving to face him. “I’ve got a lot on my mind and I’m really not in the mood for one of your idiotic monologues right now. Could you just get whatever you came in here for and go? I’ll even put chocolate chips in your pancakes. Just leave me alone.”

Frank wants nothing more than to grab his pills and leave, but that feeling— _guilt_ , as they call it—is still tugging at his insides, twisting them up in that aching way that’s impossible to ignore without something to take the edge off. “When did you get back?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Three days ago, Frank. Thanks for noticing.”

“And what brings you back to la casa de Gallagher, son? Thought you moved up and out?”

“Lip’s being an asshole.”

Frank shakes his head and waves his hands in front of him. “No, no, no, that’s where you’re wrong. Your brother is not _being_ an asshole. Your brother simply _is_ an asshole. It’s just the way his brain is wired, can’t do anything about that. Holding that against him is like getting mad at a retarded kid for being retarded. They can’t help it. Ask Chuckles.”

Ian’s eyes widen. “Wow, I am not touching that one.”

Frank shrugs. “Well, you’re always welcome here, son. So long as you’re pulling your weight.”

“Not your fucking son.”

Ian says it under his breath, but Frank hears him. A queasy feeling joins the tight grip guilt currently has on his insides. Frank’s never liked Ian all that much, if he’s being honest. He wonders if it’s because of how much the kid looks like Clayton. The chin, the hair, the way he talks with his hands, the way he rolls his eyes—it’s all so classic Clayton fucking Gallagher. And the kid has always been a little shit about sharing, too. Even moaning about Frank borrowing his shirt or having a couple of his beers.

Ian reminds him of Monica too, more than any of his other children ever have. There’s something intensely fragile about them both. Whenever Ian was parading around in his Army fatigues like some tough guy, Frank couldn’t help but remember the way he sobbed for who knows how many weeks straight as a kid when Monica took off. Fiona and Lip fussed endlessly over him, while Frank barely managed to hold himself back from shaking the fucking kid into silence. Monica was _his_ wife, the love of  _his_ life, but he never fell apart like that. He knew she’d be back before long. So did Fiona and Lip. But Ian was weak in that obnoxious, infuriating, and beautiful way Monica had always been.

Frank might not like the boy, but he’s never stopped thinking of him as his son. He raised him, didn’t he? Fed him? Clothed him? He buried Ginger in the backyard so he’d have a roof over his head. He put on a tie and bullshitted his way through parenting classes every so often, so they’d all be able to stay together. He didn’t tell a soul when he caught him sticking his dick in the South Side’s meanest little thug. If anything miraculously ever comes of Ian Gallagher, Frank’s sure as hell going to be the one taking credit for it. Clayton might have dropped a load in Monica, but Frank’s the one who did all the hard work.

Frank swallows down a handful of pills with some water and then reaches for the coffee pot. After pouring himself a mug, he looks back to Ian, now leaning over the stove. “So what’s got your asshole of a brother all riled up?”

Ian looks up slowly and stares at him with a furrowed brow and scrunched up nose, as if he’s not quite sure who he’s looking at. “Since when do you care?”

Frank holds his free hand over his heart. “You wound me, son,” he says, shaking his head. “Are you not one of my children, the fruit of my loins?”

One of his eyebrows shoots up, but Ian doesn’t answer right away. He looks down and flips the pancakes. When he looks back up, he seems surprised to find Frank still standing there, waiting for an answer. “You seriously want to know?”

“That _is_ why I asked, yes.”

“Uh.” Ian squints at him for a long moment, titling his head to one side. He then jerks back suddenly, as a burnt smell begins to fill the air. “Goddamnit.” He throws the now blackened pancakes into the trash, leans his elbows against the counters, and sighs. “Do you remember Mickey Milkovich?”

“Of course I remember! My son’s felonious butt buddy, how could I forget?” Frank exclaims. “What kind of father do you take me for? And he tried to kill my eldest daughter, if I’m not mistaken. Never did get to thank him for that.”

“Well, he got out of prison recently. He wanted to see me, but Lip lied to Mickey’s brother, so he thought I hated him or something and—Jesus, I don’t know, Lip’s just an asshole.”

There are tears building up in Ian’s eyes. He brushes them away with his sleeve and goes back to the pancake batter. Frank doesn’t understand how Mickey Milkovich of all people could inspire such a reaction. The boy he remembers was dirty and small and mean. Then again, people never understood what Monica saw in Frank either.

“So, what are you doing to win back the charming Mr. Milkovich then?”

Ian slams down the spatula against the stove, and mere seconds later the mystery baby starts wailing at top of its little lungs. Frank groans but cuts himself off when he notices Ian glaring at him. He takes a cautionary step back. Frank might be scrappy, but he’s pretty sure the boy can take him. From what he remembers, Ian never used to hit him back. But with the kid’s brain all fucked up and medicated now, Frank isn’t about to start taking chances.

“Is this because of what Lip said?” Ian almost growls. “Are you gonna pretend you suddenly give a shit about me because he yelled at you? You’re like twenty-five years too late on that one, so if you could just fuck off, that’d be great.”

“What the hell is that smell?” Fiona’s voice rings out from upstairs.

Ian opens a window and then starts frantically rummaging through the cabinets while muttering something to himself. “We’re out of air freshener,” Frank offers.

His son freezes. “How do you know that?”

“Ran out of deodorant a few weeks ago, had to get resourceful.”

“Of fucking course.” Ian throws the spatula furiously into the sink. “Why the fuck do I try to do anything?” The tears continue to build, and Frank could swear Ian’s hands have started to shake, but he quickly hides them away in his pockets.

Frank is tempted to ridicule him for being dramatic. Carl has almost set the entire house on fire so many times, why the hell would anyone care about a couple of burnt pancakes? But before the words come out, he finds himself thinking of Monica again. It was the little things that always broke her too.

They were impoverished, living out of a car with three crying, hungry children and barely enough money to afford decent drugs let alone food for a lot of their marriage. None of that fazed her though. She smiled and laughed and danced and told the kids long, nonsensical stories that their tiny brains always got a kick out of. Frank would convince himself that she was unbreakable, that she was the fucking sun and nothing could dim her. Then the tiniest slight would send it all crashing down—a man at the bar not finding her attractive, someone she used to know ignoring her on the street, a teacher saying Fiona talks too much in class, one of the car windows breaking, Ian dropping his ice cream cone on the sidewalk. She’d suddenly crumble, and Frank’s sun would lose all its light.

Frank can see it all so clearly again when he looks at Ian. His chin trembles in the same way, his hands can’t stop moving but can’t seem to find anything useful to do, and his eyes dart around, as if he’s waiting for someone to arrive and tell him just how bad he fucked up.

The guilt he had been trying to get rid of by starting this fucking conversation catches fire. It burns through Frank’s gut and into his veins. The smoke fills his lungs and throat until he can barely breathe. He’s accosted by memories of his wife. He used to sing to Monica when she was low like this, when she was staring over the precipice of a downward spiral. He’d hold her hand and try to remind her of how beautiful she was and how much better she was than the rest of the sad, normal world around them. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes she’d disappear for a week, and sometimes she’d disappear for years.

“What’s going on down there?” Fiona is still stomping around upstairs, probably trying to calm the baby before she comes down.

Ian looks miserable, like a kicked puppy. “She’s not gonna give a flying shit about the pancakes, you know.” Frank tries to make his voice sound _fatherly_ , but judging by the way Ian scowls at him, he’s failed.

“Why the fuck are you still here?” Ian shouts. “I’ve been a fucking shit show for years, and you’ve barely even _looked_ at me. All I ever wanted was to be a soldier, and I fucked that up. Even if I hadn’t, Monica’s genes would’ve caught up to me eventually, and that dream would’ve turned to shit. This stupid disease made me crazy, but the meds made me feel dead. I pushed away everyone that loved me, nearly killed myself in an alley of some shitty gay club, had to let Lip completely run my life to get back on track, and even then I—I—Christ, why am I talking to you? What's wrong with me?"

An idea suddenly strikes Frank. He only caught about every other word Ian said, but it’s enough to figure out what the kid needs. It’s the perfect plan to get rid of the gnawing guilt and cheer up his cranky gay son at the same time. “Get your coat, son! Hurry! Before your sister comes down.” Frank dashes past Ian and grabs his own coat from the couch, plucks Fiona's car keys from the bowl by the door, and then slips on his boots.

Ian remains frozen in the kitchen. His mouth is open and he’s looking at Frank like he’s about to kidnap him or something. “Your coat!” Frank says again. At any moment, Fiona will emerge with that damned baby and the nagging, frizzy-haired reincarnation of Peggy fucking Gallagher and everything will be ruined. “Come on, no time to waste!”

On his way back to the kitchen, Frank grabs a black coat he’s pretty sure must be Ian’s, unless Lip left it behind. It’s too nice to belong to anyone else who lives here. He throws it at his son and then grabs his elbow, dragging him to the back door. “Move your ass, boy!”

To his surprise, Ian sighs and stops struggling. He lets Frank pull him outside and around the side of the house and then finally to Fiona’s car parked on the curb. “We can’t take it without asking her, Frank. She’ll flip.”

“Jesus, when did you become such a pussy?” Frank grouses, jingling the keys in front of Ian’s face. “It’s not like she works on the weekends. It’s fine.”

“We can’t—”

“Would you just get in the fucking car? We’re not going far. We’ll be back before she has anywhere she could possibly want to go.”

“Fine, whatever, are you sober at least?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, get the fuck in.” Ian doesn’t listen, just keeps standing on the sidewalk with his coat in his arms and chin stuck out. “Come on, aren't you even a little bit curious? You'll like it.”

“I fucking doubt that,” Ian mutters, but he pulls his jacket on and flings open the car door. Frank grins and slips into the driver’s seat. “Where are we going exactly?” he asks, as he clicks his seatbelt in.

“A field trip!”

“Oh, well, that answers that then.” Sarcasm practically oozes from his son’s voice. “I really must be out of mind if I’m getting into a car with _you_.”

Frank lets that one slide, even though his kids would probably be a lot less fucking miserable if they were more willing to get into a car with him. People say a lot of things about him, but, if nothing else, Frank fucking Gallagher knows how to have fun.

 

* * *

 

They drive for nearly twenty minutes in silence. The radio isn’t working, so Frank hums under his breath instead. It’s pissing off Ian, who huffs every few minutes or so, but Frank can’t really be bothered to care.

“You drive a lot less shitty when you’re not hammered,” Ian remarks, just as they’re nearing their destination.

“Sober for four months now, my boy!” Frank exclaims, slapping his hands down on the steering wheel. “Those bastards at AA don’t believe me, but fuck them. Don’t need a goddamn plastic chip to tell me what I already know. This prissy little bitch of a liver can’t handle its alcohol, so I had to give her up. I miss her every day though.” Frank hears his voice turn wistful. He really does miss alcohol every day—the feeling of a cold beer against his tongue, the way every muscle in his body would relax as he drank more and more, the way half a bottle of vodka could make him feel warm even on the coldest Chicago night, the way Monica and Mother and Clayton and everyone else would disappear until it was just him and his drink and the guys at the Alibi.

Ian laughs and looks out the passenger side window. “We’ll see how long it lasts this time. You used to do this to us when we were kids, you know. You’d be sober for a week to win some bet or something. And for that one week, you’d be a sort of decent dad, to the others anyways. You’d at least remember we existed. Once you even took us to the park, I think. Bought us all ice cream cones. Monica was so fucking pleased. But you always went back to being a drunk. You always chose pissing yourself in alleys over us.”

Frank doesn’t remember taking them to the park, but he does remember Ian’s ice cream cone melting on the sidewalk. He remembers telling Monica they didn’t have enough money for another one while Ian sniffed and wiped at his eyes, trying not to cry. He remembers Monica making a scene and how desperately he just wanted a drink. It felt like there was an itch under his skin that he just couldn’t reach. He feels it now too, the itch. He grips the steering wheel tighter and tries to ignore it.

A lot of his memories from back then center around Monica and her moods. It probably should bother him how little he actually recalls about his children. At the custody trial, he wasn’t even sure if the story Fiona told about Frank leaving her and the boys on the curb was even true. Ian used to cry all the time. How were they supposed to know the kid was sick and not just being obnoxious like usual? That’s what Frank tries to tell himself when his brain wanders back to that day against his will. Because, fuck, did that kid have a set of lungs on him. Frank remembers the first time he hit him, when the brat insisted on wailing away about Monica leaving while Frank was trying to make a deal. It was a quick smack upside the head that sent Ian stumbling into the brick wall in front of them. Lip clutched at his brother’s bloody nose and glared at Frank like he had just murdered someone. But, hey, Ian never made such a fuss again after that.

“Why have you always hated me? What did I ever do to you?”

The questions are asked so quietly, Frank probably wouldn’t have heard them if he hadn’t just turned off the car. He’s not sure if he really  _hates_ Ian. He’s never given it enough thought. All he knows are the flashes of anger, quick and brutal. All he knows is the way Ian looks just like his mother when he cries and just like Clayton when he’s angry.

When Frank says nothing, Ian sighs, throws open his door, and steps out of the car. Frank follows and takes a deep breath of the morning air. It’s still so early, it looks like they’ve beaten most of the crowd.

“Why are we here?”

“Why _aren’t_ we here?” Frank shoots back, as he walks over to the meter. He digs into his pockets, but it’s only for show. He knows there’s nothing there. “You got money for this thing?"

“No, I’m still in my fucking sweatpants. Fiona’s going to kill you if we get a ticket.”

“Well, best go quick then!”

 

* * *

 

They walk along the edge of Lake Michigan. The city stretches out in the distance on one side and the partially frozen water in the other. The sky is still dark, but the sun is beginning to peak out from behind the clouds. It’s just enough light to catch on the frozen edges. It doesn’t quite sparkle like it did on the day he took Clayton here, but it’s still something.

Ian stops walking when Frank does. Frank steels himself, expecting Ian to start bitching about why they would waste their time coming all the way out here. But Ian doesn’t say anything like that. Instead, he walks closer to the edge and looks out over the water.

“I came here after my transplant. Told God to fuck off.”

“That why you brought me here? So I can watch you yell at God for giving you a shitty liver? Need an audience for that?”

Frank scoffs at that. It’s amazing how great of a monster they’ve turned him into in their minds. One day under Peggy Gallagher’s thumb would show them just how good they really have it. “I’ve done my yelling,” he says. “It’s your turn.”

Ian turns and raises an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Go on,” Frank says, motioning to the lake. “Yell at the bastard for giving you that defective brain of yours. Yell at him for giving you a shit father and an asshole brother and whatever the hell else you feel like yelling about.”

“I’m not gonna fucking yell at the sky.” Ian shakes his head and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Don’t even believe in God.”

“Then yell at whatever the fuck you want,” he snaps back, losing his patience. Why doesn’t anyone else ever get it? “Yell at the universe, or genetics, or the fucked up American healthcare system, or whatever the fuck you want. It’ll make you feel better, trust me. It’s the Gallagher way.”

When Ian doesn’t even turn back to acknowledge him, Frank’s sure this has all just been a waste of time. He’s about to grab the asshole by the hood of his jacket and drag him back to the car, when Ian suddenly stretches out his arms. Frank’s breath catches when the faint sun lights up his orange hair. For a moment, it’s almost like Ian himself is the sun.

“Fuck you!” Ian’s voice is a little raspy but has impressive range. “Fuck you for making me just like her! Fuck you for giving me this traitorous, pathetic fuck-up of a brain! Fuck you for taking everything I wanted away from me!”

Frank edges closer until he and Ian are side by side. “But you’re still here.”

“But I’m still here!” Ian roars. “I’m still fucking here!”

“And you’re going to be fine.”

“And I’m going to—” Ian starts shouting again, but his voice cracks and then goes quiet. “Fuck,” he lets out in a shaky breath. “Fuck.” There are the tears again, but Frank finds they don’t make him nearly as uncomfortable this time.

Frank claps Ian on the back. “You’ve stuck around longer than your mother ever has, you know. She never made it longer than a couple years at a time."

A choked sob escapes Ian's lips. He doubles over, grabbing his knees, and starts taking deep breaths. Frank just keeps patting him on the back, not sure of what else to do. He thinks of what Monica always wanted to hear when she was like this—how she always so desperately wanted to know she was loved, and how she never quite believed him.

“Doesn’t matter how bad you fucked up, son,” Frank says, shifting his view to the city skyline. “Doesn’t matter how hard you pushed your boyfriend away. He’s going to love you anyways. It’s all a part of the appeal. You’re a beautiful mess. The struggle is a part of that. It’s a thrill, having something so beautiful and so broken at the same time. We know what we’re getting in to, and we don’t care. Doesn’t matter. Your brother could tell you as much. He’s always liked the crazy ones.”

A laugh sneaks in with Ian’s sobs. He straightens back out and presses the palms of his hands over his eyes. “And what if I don’t want to do that to anyone?” he croaks. “What if he’d be better off without me?”

“Well, that’s what your mother always said. That we’d be better off without her. That make you feel better?”

“No,” Ian sighs. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Can’t stop what’s already happened. I still love that mess of a human being.”

“Even when she leaves?”

“She always comes back, doesn’t she?

“And that’s enough for you? You don’t wish she’d just leave you alone for good?”

“Don’t really have a choice, do I? That’s what people like you don’t seem to get. She doesn’t just get to go away, and I suddenly stop wanting her. She can’t just fucking disappear. She’s stuck in here.” Frank slaps the palm of his hand against his temple a few times. “And she doesn’t get to go away just because _she_  thinks it will be better that way. Never makes my life any better. That’s not how it fucking works.”

“Holy shit.”

Frank looks away from the city and steps back when he realizes Ian is staring at him with wide eyes and his mouth slightly open. “What?”

“I just—that actually kind of makes sense. Are you like secretly wise when you’re not drunk?”

Frank can only shrug. He’s not even sure what he just said. He searches his brain and tries to bring the words up again, but the footfalls of an old couple approaching distracts him. The couple waves to him and Ian, and they wave politely back.

“Jesus, Frank, this might be the least I’ve ever hated you.”

“I love you too, son,” Frank chuckles, draping his arm around Ian’s shoulders.

“Oh, fuck off with that.” Ian shakes off Frank’s arm but doesn’t move to walk away. Frank just grins and looks back out at lake. The sun is dancing across the ice. It all looks so perfect now, almost like how it looked that day he and Clayton skipped school. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Do you think we can we stay here another minute?”

Relief washes over him at Ian’s whispered words. The guilt starts to break apart and fade. This probably doesn’t make up for anything in Ian’s eyes and he’ll go back to hating Frank tomorrow, but that’s not really why Frank brought him out here. He just wanted someone else to see the way the lake could look. He just wanted someone else to appreciate it.

When Frank pats Ian on the back again, he realizes just how sturdy of a jacket it is he's wearing. It’s a fine material, probably expensive. He thinks maybe the nagging one said something about him managing a business. He’s got to have money now, with this jacket and his nice haircut. That little prick Marty from down the street has been getting aggressive about the hundred dollars Frank owes him, even though his weed was absolute shit. Frank considers mentioning it, but when a smile stretches out across Ian’s face, he decides it can wait until they’re back in the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was kind of a weird experiment of a chapter. Frank's certainly not my favorite character, but I always found his relationship with Monica and the kids interesting.
> 
> Next up is Mickey again. Thanks for reading!


	6. Upstanding Citizen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey’s eyes drift over to the old couch in the living room. For a moment, it’s almost like 17-year-old Ian is actually there in front of him, swinging Yevgeny gently up and down in his arms. The baby is giggling. Ian tilts his head to the side and meets Mickey’s eyes, a grin on his face, and for the first time in his life Mickey feels like maybe his future isn’t completely fucked.

Every muscle in Mickey Milkovich’s body aches. When he’s not at the diner, he’s usually working out or trying to make the house something close to presentable in case his PO decides to drop by one day, and it’s starting to catch up to him. When he throws off his Patsy’s Pies shirt, which reeks of grease and milkshakes, he’s tempted to just fall into his bed and not move until his next shift tomorrow afternoon. There’s a chicken finger dinner platter sitting on his counter that Debbie insisted on sending him home with, but he’s so exhausted he’s almost okay with Iggy snatching it for himself when he gets home.

Of course, the moment he collapses on to his sheets is the moment his phone decides to ring. He curses and reaches blindly toward his nightstand. “What do you want?” he grunts, expecting to hear Iggy on the other end. Iggy’s pretty much the only person who calls him these days, usually to tell Mickey they’re out of beer again. Sometimes Debbie will call when she needs open shifts covered. He suspects she’s been calling him more than everyone else, because she thinks he needs the money. It pisses him off, but he really _does_ need the money, so he’s not about to call her out on it.

“Why hello to you too, ex-husband. Is so nice to hear your sweet voice.”

Mickey shoots up and presses the phone closer to his ear. “Jesus, Svet? Everything alright?”

“Yes, everything fine. I talk to orange boy today. Long talk on phone. I decide we are friends again. Thought you should know.”

_Orange boy._ Mickey misses the days he was better at pretending he didn’t give a shit about Ian Gallagher. The old Mickey would’ve been able to convince himself the flip his stomach just did at the mention of him was just a hunger pain. “And why the hell is that my business?”

“Prison has not made you any more pleasant.”

“Did you fucking expect it to?” Mickey reluctantly hauls himself out of bed and shuffles toward the kitchen. “Wasn’t exactly summer camp, you know. You call for a reason, or you just wanna chat about Gallagher?”

“You are sure he did not know you were out, yes?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking sure. Can we stop talking about it now?”

“Ian sounds sad when we talk on phone. He says you have not talked to him for two weeks.”

“Yeah, well, Ian’s a fucking snitch,” Mickey grumbles. He throws down the phone, puts it on speaker, and pulls out Debbie’s chicken finger platter. If he’s going to be bitched at for the next twenty minutes, he’s not going to do it hungry.

“You sound sad, too. You should go see him.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “The fuck I sound sad. You're so full of shit,” he says around a mouthful of chicken. He aggressively licks some ketchup off of his fingers, making it sound as gross as possible, hoping she’ll just hang up on him in disgust. “How much he pay you to say that, huh? I’ll talk to him when I feel like it. ‘Sides, it’s none of your fucking business.”

“Oh, yes, what a big tough man you are,” Svetlana mocks, and he can almost perfectly picture the sneer on her face right now. “He does not pay me anything, or ask me for anything. He just sounds like sad orange puppy. And you sound like cranky little scared cat.”

“Scared cat?”

“Yes, scared cat.”

“Jesus, do you mean scaredy-cat?”

“What is scaredy? This is not word.”

Mickey groans, but the sound is muffled by a second piece of chicken. After he takes a long drink of water to wash it down, he turns back to the phone. “I ain’t scared of Gallagher. He made me wait like a fucking year to talk to him. His whiny ass can survive a few weeks.”

“So you are punishing him then, yes?”

“What? No.”

“Then I do not understand,” she huffs, and Mickey imagines she’s shaking her head now. If she were with him, she’d probably be looking at him like he was the biggest moron on the planet. “You are finally free to rub dicks together again.”

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“And yet you just sit at home like scared cat. Lonely, scared cat.”

“It’s fucking _scaredy_ -cat. How long have you been in this country now? Learn to speak fucking English already,” Mickey snaps. “And it ain’t that easy. You got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What is not easy?” she challenges, voice rising. “Rubbing dicks is easy. I should know. Especially when attached to men who look like orange boy.”

“Yeah, well, this particular dick is a little more complicated than that, alright?” he sighs, feeling more exhausted with every passing second.

“He is good boy. Before I meet Alex and make him stop, he send money for me and Yevgeny every month. He is good with Yev—”

“He kidnapped the damn—”

“When he was crazy,” she interjects. “Is not crazy now. The pills make his brain normal again. No more kidnapping.”

Mickey feels like he should be annoyed by Svetlana’s sudden passionate defense of Ian, especially since she spent the last month not speaking to him on Mickey’s behalf. Instead, it makes his lips twitch up until he can’t fight the smile blooming there any longer. Considering how they all first met, her trying so hard to get them back together is a little bit hilarious. It’s a fucking miracle they ever lived in this house together as a happy quasi-family after what Terry did.

“If I promise to talk to him this week, can we drop this?" 

“You promise?”

“Yes, I fucking promise, alright?”

“Fine. We talk about Yevgeny now.”

Fear seizes him so abruptly, he almost can’t breathe. Logically, he knows nothing’s wrong with the kid. If there were, Svetlana would’ve led with that rather than Mickey’s and Ian’s dicks. “What? He alright?”

“Of course he is alright. You think I let anything happen to him?” she snaps. “He asks to see you again, but I cannot get work off until beginning of next month because boss is asshole. I will bring him down then. We will stay in hotel. I do not want Yevgeny in that piece of shit house.”

“Ay, you used to live in this piece of shit house.”

“Yes, is how I know is piece of shit. We will get hotel.”

“Fine, but I ain’t paying for it.”

“Well, yes, obviously,” Svetlana drones. Mickey puts down his dinner and flips off the phone. “Alex will pay, no problems.”

“That joker coming too?”

“No, he will see piece of shit house I raise Yevgeny in and unmarry me on spot,” she teases, laughter in her voice. “Not to mention cranky, piece of shit ex-husband.”

“Then he sounds like a douchebag." 

“No, is only joke. He is good man.” Her voice turns more serious. “He is best man I have met in America, and if you ever meet him, you _will_ be nice.”

Mickey pictures her holding up a claw hammer as she says that last part, though a rolling pin is probably more likely these days. He’s pretty sure she could do just as much damage either way. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be nice.” He burps and throws away the salad portion of his platter. Debbie would shake her head at him for that, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

“So beginning of next month is okay, yes?”

“Yeah, sure, whenever,” he blurts out, probably too quickly. He thinks back to when he was scared to even be in the same room as the kid, and now he’s practically desperate to see him again. “I’ll make whatever work.”

“Good. He will be happy. He is at school now and then off to sleepover tonight, but if you call tomorrow, you can talk to him.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll call before my shift.” He and Yevgeny have been talking on the phone every week or so since he got out. The phone calls are the only thing that can successfully distract his brain from the relentless chorus of _Ian Ian Ian_  that plays on repeat. 

But as much as he loves those phone calls, it’s beginning to feel like it’s not enough. Mickey takes a deep breath and carefully considers his next words. He and Svetlana might be something like friends now, but he’s still not sure how she’s going to react to this request. “So, uh, you think we could maybe work something out after I, you know, get back on my feet? I can make some money, maybe get my own place in a better—”

“You want Yevgeny to stay over with you?”

Mickey swallows. “I know I probably got no right to ask, but if I can get a nicer place and—”

“Yes, we can work something out,” she cuts in, before he can start listing off all the plans he’s made. “But I cannot be bringing him there all the time.”

Mickey feels his stomach sink. “Well, it’s not like I can come to you. Can’t leave the fucking state. Maybe I can meet you somewhere?”

“No, Ian will do it,” she says, like that’s the final answer, like Mickey's got no fucking say in it. “He won’t mind. We all discuss when I come visit.”

“Oh, is that right? You already invite him to hang out with us then?”

“Yes, Yev likes him. He misses you both.”

Mickey’s eyes drift over to the old couch in the living room. For a moment, it’s almost like 17-year-old Ian is actually there in front of him, swinging Yevgeny gently up and down in his arms. The baby is giggling. Ian tilts his head to the side and meets Mickey’s eyes, a grin on his face, and for the first time in his life Mickey feels like maybe his future isn’t completely fucked. His stomach clenches at the memory. “We’re not there yet, Svet,” he admits, voice soft. “I don’t know if I can handle that.” Seeing Ian with his arm around Yevgeny at the prison made him ask Ian on a fucking date. He has no idea what kinds of stupid ideas seeing them together without prison glass separating them will inspire.

“You have whole three weeks to get there,” she argues. “Just talk to orange boy.”

“You’re bossy as fuck, you know that?”

“Yes, is how you make it in America,” she says. “You tell people what you want them to do, over and over, until they do it. But I must now make to dinner. You call tomorrow, yes?”

“Yeah, yeah, said I’d call, I’ll call.”

“Good.”

The phone beeps before Mickey can say goodbye. The screen goes dark, but he doesn’t move. He just keeps staring at it, waiting for something that’s not going to happen. There’s a part of him that expected Ian to get his number from Debbie by now and start harassing him until he agreed to meet again. He thought Ian might even come marching through the Milkovich front door, like he used to when he was fired up as a kid. He can’t even sit in his own fucking living room without being on edge now, his eyes darting over to the door more frequently than he’ll ever admit.

It bothers him that Ian hasn’t even tried to get in touch with him. And it bothers him that that bothers him. He’s the one who asked Ian for space and demanded he let Mickey come to him this time. He’d have to be a special kind of jackass to hold Ian actually listening against him.

“Fuck.” He tears his eyes away from the phone and turns to the fridge. When he throws it open, he finds only some beer, a mostly empty jar of pickles, three Jell-O cups, and a carton of milk that’s probably expired. It makes him think of Ian scurrying wildly around his kitchen and blushing red as his fucking hair when he put down the cheese and crackers. He almost told Ian to stop stressing out, that his kitchen was way worse, but he looked kind of adorable all flustered and—fuck, he’s got to stop thinking shit like that.

He shuts the fridge and moves to stand in the middle of his house, trying to think of something to do with himself. His body hurts too much to work out. His brain is too wired now to attempt another nap. He has too much pride to beg Debbie for another shift. And he’s too full to go get something else to eat. Besides, if he leaves the house, he’s not totally sure his legs won't start walking toward Ian’s apartment against his will.

He remembers feeling restless like this when he first got out of prison. It took an absurd amount of willpower to stop himself from stomping over to the Gallagher house and losing his shit. But he didn’t want to give Ian the satisfaction, didn’t want him to know just how deeply him not wanting to see him again cut. Going to Boystown felt like a natural outlet for all of that uneasy energy. Fucking wasn’t so far from fighting, after all. And if Ian didn’t want to fight with him or fuck him anymore, then there were plenty of fags in the sea, right?

The club he started going to was too dark and too loud. The guys were all somehow too aggressive and too fucking prissy at the same time. People kept trying to touch him or push drugs at him. It wasn’t even the club Ian used to work at, but he still kept seeing that redheaded jerk everywhere, smiling at him from the bar or shaking his stupid, perfect ass in gold booty shorts on stage. A couple of mediocre blowjobs and halfhearted fucks in the alley were hardly making the torture of going into that place worth it. Not until he finally met a guy who didn’t try to feel him up within the first thirty seconds of meeting him, didn’t try to convince him to snort some random shit off his abs, and didn’t sound completely moronic when he spoke.

His name was Mark, and he’s the only other guy aside from Ian who has the great honor of giving it to Mickey within the crumbling walls of the Milkovich house. They went to Mark’s place two or three times before he insisted they go to Mickey’s instead. Iggy had punched Mickey hard when Mark started wandering the house in nothing but his underwear the next morning, but seeing as the guy was the first decent fuck Mickey had had in over seven years, it was worth it.

He remembers staring at Mark’s ass while he walked around the kitchen making breakfast and thinking he might actually be able to do this. That maybe someday he could fuck someone else without seeing red hair and freckles when he closed his eyes. That maybe someday he might be able to get through one day of his life without thinking about Ian fucking Gallagher. Of course, it all went to shit pretty quickly after that. Mickey really should’ve known better at that point.

“Jesus, did someone punch your wall?” Mark had laughed, when they sat down on the couch to eat. “Oh shit, there’s more of them. Your brother got some anger issues, man?”

“Nah, Ig didn’t make those. He’s cool.”

Mark abandoned his eggs and walked over to one of the many holes decorating the walls. He traced the dent with his finger and whistled. “Then who did?”

Mickey was tempted to tell him to shut the fuck up and mind his own business, but he was trying to be different now. Normal people shared details about their lives with people they were fucking. Or at least he’s pretty sure they did. “My dad. He’s a dick.”

“Fuck, man, this is so wild.” There was a note of amusement in the guy’s voice that made Mickey uneasy. “Holy shit, is that an actual bullet hole?”

Mickey squinted at what he was pointing to and nodded. “Yeah, I mean, probably. My brothers used to sell guns. Might’ve forgot to unload one when they were cleaning ‘em or something. Don’t remember any shootouts in the living room, but who knows.”

The guy laughed at that and ran his finger over the bullet hole too. Mickey’s uneasiness began to twist into anger. “What, that funny to you?”

“Dude, you have actual bloodstains on your walls. This is insane,” Mark said, the same hint of amusement threading through every word. “I seriously can’t even believe this place is real. How do you live here?”

“Don’t got much of a choice, do I? I just got out of prison. People ain’t exactly lining up to hire ex-cons with violent felonies on their rap sheets.”

“ _Violent_ , huh?” The guy smirked at him, eyeing him up and down. Mickey suddenly felt sick. This was all a huge fucking mistake. Why did he think he could bring some random asshole into his house and he’d just understand? He pushed his breakfast away and tried to think of a non-violent way of kicking this guy out of his house before he lost it and did something stupid. “What did you do? Don’t spare any details,” Mark whispered, as he wrapped his arms around Mickey’s middle and placed a kiss on his neck, on that spot just behind his ear. On that spot Ian used to kiss him to wake him up in the morning.

“Come on, man, stop.”

Mickey tried to shake him off, but Mark just held tighter. “Just tell me,” he said in Mickey’s ear. “Seriously, this is all fascinating.”

“Oh yeah, the ghetto is fucking fascinating to you then? I’ve been shot twice. Arrested fuck knows how many times. My dad almost killed me at the local bar for being a fag. Almost killed me in this fucking room actually. That all fucking fascinating to you, too?”

“Hey, shit, I didn’t mean it that way. I’ve just never dated someone like you before.”

“Someone like me? And what’s that supposed to fucking mean?” It was hard to decide if this was all more embarrassing or infuriating. This guy wasn’t really interested in who he was. He was like one of those weird chicks who wrote love letters to serial killers in prison. Probably saw Mickey’s knuckle tattoos and thought it’d be a kick to fuck around with someone like him for a while. Just to say he did. This guy would probably go back to his North Side apartment and joke to his roommates about slumming it with a guy with bloodstained walls. “Wanna know why I went to prison? Almost killed my ex-boyfriend’s bitch half-sister. Don’t even feel bad about it. Never have. If I had to do the time, I just wish she had actually fucking died. If I ever run into that cunt, I’ll probably try it again.”

The guy’s eyes widened, and he took a step back from Mickey. “Yeah, that’s right. This ain’t all a show for your amusement. I _am_ this house. I _am_ this fucking neighborhood. So you wanna jerk off to the bullet holes some more or you wanna get the fuck out of my house?”

Mickey hasn’t gone back to the club since that day. Quick alley fucks aren’t worth the headache the music gives him, and he sure as hell isn’t looking for a repeat of Mark.

It’s trying to date again that made Mickey realize how easy everything had been with Ian. It seemed insane to think it at first. Sneaking around South Side wasn’t easy. Ian disappearing on him wasn’t easy. Facing his father wasn’t easy. Ian losing his mind wasn’t easy. But as shit as they might’ve been at communicating most of the time, they always understood each other where it really counted. Ian could joke about the holes in Mickey’s walls, because Ian had holes in his walls too. Because Ian understood. Even now that he’s got his fancy North Side apartment, he’d still understand. It isn’t the kind of thing you can just walk away from.

Mickey walks into his bedroom and stops in front of a white spot on his wall by the door. He runs his fingers over it. It’s smooth, so Ian must have gotten around to sanding it, just not painting it. He remembers coming home from the Alibi to Ian putting a patch on the wall, over a hole his father left behind when he caught Mickey playing with one of his guns as a kid. “I’m fixing it,” Ian had declared proudly. “I’m going to fix them all. Not like that fucker’s around to make more.” He only got to that one though. His mind must have wandered somewhere else after that, maybe to the suitcase scam, maybe to something else Mickey can’t remember.

He splays his fingers over the covered hole and rests his forehead against the wall. “Damn it.” He’s not sure why he ever thought he could forget Ian, not while in this house. His ghost lurks in every fucking corner.

“Yo, Mick! You home?”

The front door slams. Mickey sighs and pushes off the wall. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Iggy’s still in his dirty boots, tracking mud everywhere. “Oh, thank god, thought you might’ve had work. I gotta do a run, but the driver backed out last minute. Get your jacket on, and let’s go. We’ll cut you in good.”

“Yeah, I ain’t going on no fucking run, Ig.” Mickey crosses his arms in front of his chest and plants his feet, trying to make it clear this isn’t just a negotiation for more money. “I’m on probation." 

“And?” Iggy says, holding out his arms. “So is like everyone else, dude. Who gives a shit? Not like we’re gonna get caught.”

“Oh, you can guarantee that, huh?”

“We’re careful, man! Just get your jacket. You just gotta sit in the car and drive and collect your money. Easiest job on the fucking planet.”

“I said no. Don’t ask me again.”

Iggy squints at him, like he’s not totally sure the guy in front of him is actually his brother. “You serious, or you just fucking with me? Because we really gotta—”

“I’m dead fucking serious, Ig. Don’t ask me again.” Mickey turns away from him and heads back to the kitchen, in desperate need of a beer.

He’s opening one when Iggy appears behind him, muddy footprints still in his wake. “This ain’t funny, Mick. I told ‘em my brother was cool, and I had ‘em covered. You gotta come, or they’re gonna be pissed.”

“That’s your fucking mistake, you deal with it. Not going back to jail because you ran your big mouth to some asshole.”

“I know you need the money, man,” Iggy argues. “You make jack shit working at that diner. We’re barely keeping the lights on right now.”

“I’d rather live in the dark than go back to jail.” Mickey chugs more than half of his beer while Iggy just stands there and gapes at him. When he finally pulls the bottle away from his lips, he burps and raises his eyebrows at his brother. “You wanna chat about something else?”

“I knew you were a fag, Mick, had no idea you were a pussy too,” Iggy sneers. “Man up and get your jacket. Enough fucking around.”

One of Mickey’s hands tightens around the beer, and the other curls into a fist at his side. He wants so badly to smash his knuckles right into Iggy’s face. He can practically already smell the blood. Then he thinks of the holes in the walls, of Terry’s fists colliding into them, of Ian smiling at him while covering one of them up. He takes a deep breath and drinks the rest of his beer before finally speaking again.

“Said no, and I mean no,” he says calmly. “Gonna pay the bills my own way, alright? I got a son, man. Can’t be pulling this shit anymore." 

“Oh, so this is about your son then? That what you’re going with? ‘Cos your son didn’t stop you from trying to kill that bitch for your batshit boyfriend. You know what I think this is really about? That ginger asshole. You always turn into a pussy around him. Anything to get his dick back in you like some bitch in heat, huh?”

Mickey lunges forward and just barely stops himself from smashing the bottle over Iggy’s head. Iggy laughs again and shoves into Mickey. “Come on, don’t be a little bitch, Mick. Do it.” It’s an invitation. This is how all of their fights started as kids—getting in each other’s space, saying whatever bullshit they needed to get the other to throw the first punch. But Mickey isn’t a kid anymore.

He places his palm on Iggy’s chest and pushes him back slowly. “I go back to prison, I’m a dead man. Simple as that. I step into that place again, and Terry or one of his Nazi friends slits my throat. But fuck me for not wanting to die in that place, right? Fuck me for not wanting Terry’s ugly fucking face smirking down at me to be the last thing I see. I’m telling you no because I want a goddamn life. If that makes me a pussy then so fucking be it. I’ve sure as shit been called worse.”

Iggy bats Mickey’s hand away. He looks down at the floor and scuffs his boot over it a couple of times. When he looks up, his face has softened slightly, but he still looks pissed. “Whatever, man,” he says. “Good luck trying to survive around here as an understanding fucking citizen.”

“The word’s ‘upstanding,’ Ig. Upstanding citizen.”

“What-fucking-ever. Fuck you, Mickey.”

Iggy flips him off and storms out of the kitchen like a fucking toddler. A few minutes later, Mickey hears the front door slam shut again. As soon as he hears the sound, he sinks to the floor and bangs the back of his head against the wall.

 

* * *

 

After sitting on the kitchen floor for a ridiculous amount of time, Mickey finally pushes himself up and walks back to his bedroom. All he wants is a nap, but his fight with Iggy has left him even more restless than his conversation with Svetlana. He starts cleaning up instead, hoping to tire himself out enough for some sleep. There’s too much shit on his floor anyways.

As he’s throwing his dirty clothes all in to one corner, he catches himself smiling. Just deciding not to commit a crime probably wouldn’t earn him a gold star from most people, but it feels like a big deal to him. Before prison, he wouldn’t have even thought twice about driving Iggy. There was a time when doing a run was just a normal Wednesday. He might not be a giant prick like his dad, but he always figured he’d end up in the same place as him anyways, a career criminal with no future to speak of. But now, he almost feels like maybe he can be different, that maybe he can finally get out of this shitty house and never look back.

He starts humming a song he heard at the diner to himself, as he reaches down to grab something sticking out from under his bed. He forgets the song and jerks back like he’s been stung the moment he realizes what it is he’s grabbed.

“Oh, fucking hell, there’s no way,” he mutters. Mickey runs his fingers over the thick, dark material. He pulls the jacket out a little further and then flips it over. _Gallagher_ is stitched over the breast just like he knew it would be. “Of course.”

He sinks down on to his knees and smooths the uniform over his lap. He’s surprised Ian has never mentioned leaving it behind. This stupid thing used to mean the world to him. He was fanatical about keeping it hung up and perfectly pressed, never allowing it to mix in with the rest of the shitty clothes in their room.

As he brushes some dust from the shoulders, he wonders if he can use this as an excuse to drop by Ian’s place. It doesn’t belong here anymore, probably never did, but he doubts Ian would want it back after everything that’s happened. He’s tempted to just shove it back under the bed and pretend like he never saw it. It won’t work, of course. Mickey will know it’s there. It will probably just make the dreams of Ian worse; he always looked hot as fuck when he put it on.

Mickey supposes he could just throw it in the trash, but something about that feels wrong. The thought of it mixing in with greasy napkins and cigarette butts makes his stomach turn. It’s been shoved under his bed for who knows how many years, and yet it somehow looks nicer than anything else in Mickey’s room.

“Fucking fine,” he mumbles to himself, as he stands back up. His knees creak like an old man’s when they straighten out. They keep creaking when he walks over to their tiny ass coat closet. There are three hangers inside, all empty. He pulls one of them down and slips the uniform over it. He stands back once it’s hung up and stares at the outline of it in the dark closet.

Mickey eases the door shut, walks back to his room, and looks longingly at his bed. He knows there’s no use in trying to sleep. When his mind gets stuck on Ian, laying around always just makes things worse. He’s got to find something to distract himself with, and soon, if he doesn’t want to go insane. Part of him wishes Ian would just come through the door, so they could finally talk it all out and see where they land. He needs to know what Ian’s thinking, what he’s feeling, what he wants. He needs to know if Ian’s single, if it even matters if he’s single. He needs to know if Ian can still see him in his life, or if he just feels too bad about everything to let him go completely.

But if he ever wants to find any of that out, he’s probably going to have to go to Ian. _Just let me come to you._ Those were his words. This anxiety and second-guessing is all self-imposed. He honestly hadn’t expected Ian to stay away, but he supposes Ian staying away is Ian _trying_.

Mickey thought space was what he needed. Just some time to collect his thoughts and adjust to the idea of Ian with his nice clothes and his nice North Side apartment. But his thoughts aren’t collected. Every day they just grow more jumbled and confused. Maybe he is punishing Ian like Svetlana suggested. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward.

“Fuck it.” He grabs his coat, slips on his boots, and slams the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

The sun is setting by the time he’s reached Ian’s door. It’s freezing out, and Mickey’s thin coat isn’t doing much to help. The cold is starting to settle into his bones, making his teeth chatter. He’s been standing outside, just staring at the gold 14C stuck over the peephole, for at least ten minutes. The lights are on inside, so someone’s obviously home, but Mickey can’t bring himself to knock.

In the end, he doesn’t need to.

“Well, if it isn’t Mickey fucking Milkovich! Jus’ the man I’ve been waiting for!” a slurred voice exclaims. “What brings you to my humble dwelling? Come to kick my ass?”

His hands ball up into fists, as he turns to find Lip Gallagher stumbling down the stairs toward him. There’s a crooked smile on his face and an unfocused, glassy look to his eyes. A bottle wrapped in a crumpled paper bag is balanced in the crook of one arm while the other clings to the railing.

“You wasted?”

“Why, you not?” Lip slips on the second to last step and falls flat on his ass with a quiet _oof_. Mickey reaches out to him on instinct, but Lip smacks his outstretched hand away and leans backs against the steps, bottle still safely cradled in his arms. A loud laugh erupts from his throat that makes Mickey flinch. “It’s Friday night, man,” he says. “Catch the fuck up.”

“Your brother home?”

Lip’s laughter fades into a small hiccup. After a long sigh, he rests his bottle on a stair and grasps the railing with both hands to pull himself back up. “Take it you two aren’t speaking then?”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Lip doesn’t seem to have heard him. He’s facing the door now and slapping his pockets. “Aha!” he laughs, when he finally finds his keys. After three failed attempts, he finally manages to successfully open the door. “Yo, grab that, will you?” Lip nods to his bottle and then walks inside.

Mickey grudgingly does as he’s asked and then follows after him, grateful to finally be out of the cold even if he has to deal with Ian’s fuckhead brother. “Where’s Ian?”

“An excellent question, Mickey. An _excellent_ question.” Lip snatches the package out of Mickey’s hands and places it on the kitchen counter. He peels away the paper bag to reveal a handle of vodka. Instead of grabbing a cup, Lip just twists off the cap and takes a long swig.

“That all for you?”

“Don't know! Does it look like there’s anyone around to share it with me?” Lip asks, swinging his arm out toward the empty living room. The television is on. There’s a naked woman on the screen, wrapping her leg around a pole and smiling down at the camera. Mickey grimaces and looks away.

“Doesn’t do anything for you, huh?” Lip laughs, raising an eyebrow. “Would it help if she were a carrot top?”

“It would help if she had a dick.”

Lip snorts and then takes another drink. Another drink he really doesn’t need, judging by the way he’s swaying on his feet. “Want some?”

The offer is tempting, even if Lip has been slobbering all over it, but Mickey waves the outstretched alcohol away. “Where’s your brother, man? Your sister told me he doesn’t usually work Friday nights.” The only answer Lip gives is a smirk so fucking smug Mickey would love nothing more than to punch it right off of his face. A knot starts to form in Mickey’s stomach at the sight of it. He tries not to think of all the places Ian could be on a Friday night, of all the people he could be with.

“Debs told you that, huh?” Lip leans against the counter and runs a hand through his already messy hair. “Tryna set you two idiots back up or somethin’? She doesn’t know shit about shit though. Worst fucking romantic track record of us all, and Jesus Christ is that saying something in this family.”

The impulse to defend Debbie strikes him, and he wonders where the hell that’s coming from. “She was just making conversation, man,” he says instead, hoping to get the hell out of this conversation as soon as humanly possible. “Where’s your brother?”

“You came all this way, and he was right in your fucking backyard.”

“What?”

“He’s back at the North Wallace house,” Lip spits. The smirk disappears and turns into a hard line. “Congratulations! You’ve already pulled him right back down into the ghetto with you. So great to have you back, Mickey.”

“Wait, he’s in your old house right now?” Mickey nearly shouts. “Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell is he doing there?”

“Avoiding me,” he answers simply. “Pissed. Always pissed, that one.”

_Good_ , Mickey thinks. This fucker deserves it. Without another word, he turns and marches toward the door, ready to make the journey back to South Side. Just as he’s about to reach for the knob, Lip grabs his hood and pulls him back. Mickey swings out an arm, knocking him away. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Wanna talk to you,” Lip mutters, narrowing his eyes. “Ian’s good now. He’s good. Happy. And then— _hiccup—_ and then you show up, and it all starts going to shit again. Why can’t you just leave him alone? There’s gotta be some other ass out there you wanna get on, right? Just let him live his life, alright? Let me take care of him.”

“He’s a grown ass man,” Mickey snaps. “He can take care of himself.”

Mickey moves for the door again, but Lip surges forward and pins him back against it. It would be easy enough to push him away. Mickey might have lost weight but, in this state, he’s pretty sure a strong breeze could knock Lip on his ass. The look in his eyes shocks Mickey still though. There’s something wild in them, something scary.

“You don’t know shit, Mickey,” Lip sneers. “You were in prison. You didn’t—you didn’t have to see him fucking fall apart.”

“I saw enough!” Mickey yells back. “Everything he pulled when he was with me wasn’t falling apart? I tried to take care of him. I did everything I could.”

“Yeah, you  _tried_ , but _I’m_ the one who actually did it. You—you didn’t have to get that phone call. You didn’t have to listen to him tell you he had fucking tried to end it all.” Unshed tears begin to line Lip’s eyes.

“I don’t—”

“Tried to kill himself a little while after you got locked up,” Lip says calmly, like he’s just reciting a line from a book. “Did he tell you that?” Mickey’s chest suddenly feels too tight. It’s hard to breathe, let alone speak, so he just shakes his head. “Took a bunch of shit and then sat himself down in an alley, middle of fucking winter. He’s alive because he called me, and I called 911. Didn’t fuckin’ call me first though. The police looked at his phone.”

Lip drops his arm from Mickey and shambles back to the kitchen. When he takes a third long drink from the bottle, Mickey almost grabs the damn thing from him. He doesn’t know how the asshole is still conscious. Lip pushes the bottle away after he’s done, leans his elbows on the counter, and buries his head in his hands. Mickey is just barely able to make out a muffled, “Didn’t fucking call me first.”

A heavy weight settles in Mickey’s gut. He doesn't want to hear what's coming next, but it feels like his feet have been glued to the floor.

“Called _you_ first,” Lip laughs, bitter and hoarse. “Called his fucking locked up ex-boyfriend instead of his brother.”

It’s all Mickey can do to stay standing. The image of Ian shivering in an alley, waiting for Mickey to answer his call, is so violently vivid it makes him ill. “I—I couldn’t—”

“No, you couldn’t do shit,” Lip finishes for him, looking up again. “Because you got yourself locked up. Because you couldn’t fucking control yourself.”

“I did that for Ian!” Mickey shouts. He hears the tears in voice before he actually feels them running down his face. “She—she ruined _everything_. We were going to be okay, and then she just fucking tries to ruin his life, and for what? Ian didn’t do shit to her.”

The crooked smile stretches across Lip’s face again. It looks grotesque paired with the tears building in his eyes. “I wish you had killed her,” Lip confesses. “Fuck knows I wanted to after what she did. I get you, Mickey. Always have. We aren't as different as you think. Problem with you is you actually act on all that fucked up shit in your brain. Don’t just drink it away like the rest of us. You and your fucking sister both.”

“Ay, don’t—”

“She ran my ex over with a goddamn car. Nice girl most a’ the time, sure, but that’s psychotic, man. And _you_ , you go and drug Sammi and throw her in a moving crate. Jesus Christ, the shit you Milkoviches will do for love.”

Mickey remembers Mandy telling him about mowing down a girl from school. He remembers not caring, not even giving it a second thought. That was just the kind of shit Milkoviches did. That’s how their family stayed on top. It had been engrained in them since they were children—that no one fucked with the Milkoviches, that if anyone did there would be hell to pay. That’s why they never bothered to fix the lock on their front door. No one had ever been dumb enough to break in. Not until the Gallagher brothers, at least. It’s no wonder he and Mandy fell so hard for them—the two reckless, beautiful neighborhood boys who never had the good sense to be afraid of them.

“Don’t wanna go back to prison. Ever.”

“What if Sammi shows back up? She'll probably get out soon.”

“Dunno. Get a fucking restraining order or something." 

Lip laughs again, but this time he sounds legitimately amused. “Got scared straight, huh?”

Mickey shrugs. “Something like that.”

“What the fuck do you even do in prison? How can you have that much time to think and not just be wasted all the time without going insane?”

“You know there’s hooch in prison, right?” Mickey asks. “There are ways to get drunk in there, man. You never been to juvie?”

“Nope. My report cards always got me out of it.”

“Asshole.”

Lip grins at that and reaches out to clap Mickey on the shoulder. “What I did, it wasn’t personal,” Lip says, as he brushes past Mickey and stumbles on to the couch. “Jus’—jus’ need to keep Ian on track.”

“It was a stupid plan,” Mickey tells him, watching as Lip stretches out and then buries his face into one of the pillows. “Would’ve figured it out eventually, even if your sister never came along. We decide we wanna be together, you ain’t gonna be able to keep us apart. Worse shit than you has tried.”

“You wanna be with him then?” The question is muffled by the pillow. “After everything he did.”

“Wasn’t all his fault. And that’s none of your fucking concern.”

“Whatever. Just don’t hide him away again. Don’t take him away from us. We need him too.” The words are still muffled, but Mickey can hears the cracks between them. He thinks Lip might be crying, but he’s not about to get closer to find out for certain.

“You gonna be alright?”

“’M fucking fine.” Lip reaches up and pulls the blanket draped over the couch around him. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

Mickey doesn’t need to be told twice.

 

* * *

 

It’s dark enough now that he can almost see the stars if he squints. North Wallace Street is surprisingly quiet for a Friday night. There’s music and laughter and yelling coming from some of the houses, but Mickey seems to be the only one outside. Well, Mickey and Ian Gallagher, apparently.

Ian is sitting on the Gallagher porch, in the same fucking spot he was sitting in last time Mickey came marching down this street. There’s a cigarette in his hand and a pile of papers and books at his feet. He’s looking up at the sky so intently, it takes him a few minutes to notice Mickey standing just outside of the fence.

When their eyes meet, Mickey’s heart starts to race. His mouth goes dry, making it hard to swallow. He tries not to think about what happened the last time he stood here. _You can’t fix me. I’m not broken._ “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Ian answers. “Wanna sit?”

Mickey nods and settles in next to him, closer than he really needs to be. He tells himself it’s only because it’s cold out, but it’s hard to disregard the pull he feels toward Ian. The arm that’s now pressed against his feels like it’s on fire, in the best way. He wants to push closer, wants to bury himself inside Ian until the fire consumes him.

“Went to your apartment first. Saw your brother." 

“Shit,” Ian breathes. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and then offers it to Mickey, who takes it without hesitation. “I’m sorry. Figured Debs would mention I was back here.”

“Nah, she’s too fucking loyal to you. Won’t say shit. Stone fucking wall.” Mickey hands the cigarette back and focuses on the way Ian’s fingers seem to linger against his.

“You been trying to get information out of her then?” Ian teases. “You wanna know something, just gotta ask, Mick.”

There are a million questions he wants to ask, especially after what Lip told him, but he manages to contain them for now. “Your brother was in rough shape. Drunk off his ass.”

“Damn it,” Ian mutters, stubbing out the cigarette. “He say anything to you?”

“Said a lot of shit to me.”

“Fuck. Whatever he said, I doubt he really means it,” Ian says. “He can just be an asshole when he’s drunk. He really doesn’t hate you, I swear. We just never made sense to him. Didn’t pass the scientific method, or whatever. He doesn’t get how it was between us.”

“And how was it?” Mickey asks, smirking.

Ian knocks his shoulder into Mickey’s. “You know. You remember. It was good, for a while. We—we loved each other, and we were trying. It’s just—we were kids and everything kept getting fucked and it got too hard.”

_We loved each other._ Mickey’s chest tightens. It has always bothered him that Ian never said he loved him when they were together. It’s a stupid thing to get hung up on. It’s probably his own fault he never heard the words, probably scared Ian off of even thinking about it. Plus, even if he never said it, Ian’s love was obvious to him long before Mickey was ready to admit his own feelings, even to himself. No matter how hard Ian tried to hide it, Mickey could see it in his eyes, in the soft way he smiled when Mickey snapped at him, in the way Ian would sit too close and let his hands linger too long.

_We loved each other._ The words overwhelm him. They sink into his skin and make his entire body tingle. It fills him with an anxious energy he’s not quite sure what to do with. He wishes Ian would hand him another cigarette. He needs something to do with his hands.

“You okay?”

When Mickey turns his head, Ian’s staring at him. Their faces are so close, Mickey can count the faint freckles smattered across Ian’s nose. His leg starts to shake, jumping up and down on the step, like it’s ready to run off with or without the rest of him. His breath catches when Ian cautiously places a hand on that knee.

His brain shuts off at the contact. For once, he’s not drowning in old memories of them. He’s not obsessed with what went wrong between them, of what could still go wrong. He’s not really thinking at all when he leans forward and presses his lips to Ian’s.

They are as soft as Mickey remembers and warm against his, but they’re not moving. In fact, as Mickey begins to snap out of his Ian-induced trance, he realizes that his ex’s entire body has tensed up. Mickey rips his head back and pushes himself to the opposite side of the step. The expression on Ian’s face is unreadable. The only indicator that he even noticed the kiss is a slight widening of his eyes. “Shit, sorry, I just—”

“Hey, no, don’t,” Ian whispers, following after him. “You just caught me off guard.” One of Ian’s gloved hands reaches up to cup Mickey’s cheek while the other rests on the step just above them, his arm circling around Mickey’s shoulders. Ian leans in until their noses are brushing together, and their lips are hovering not even an inch apart. “This okay?”

That little bit of space is more maddening than the prison glass had ever been. It only takes Mickey a few seconds to close the distance. Their lips crash together again, with more heat this time. As Ian sucks on his bottom lip, Mickey moves his arm around Ian’s waist, letting his hand eventually settle on his hip. He pulls Ian closer to him and can’t help the quiet moan he makes when he suddenly feels Ian’s tongue pushing into his mouth.

“Hey, boys.”

They break apart instantly, nearly throwing themselves from the steps in their haste to get away from each other. When Mickey looks up, Fiona is standing in front of them with a bemused smile. He should probably say hi or something instead of just gaping at her like an idiot, but he’s so out of breath, he’s not positive anything would come out if he tried.

“Uh—hey, Fi.” Even in the darkness, it’s obvious Ian’s blushing. “Um, sorry?”

“Don’t be sorry,” she chirps, smiling wider. “We’ve all made out on these steps at some point, haven’t we? Didn’t wanna interrupt, but the back door’s broken so—”

“Oh, shit, right,” Ian says, hopping up to make room for her. “I’ll fix that tomorrow.”

“No rush.” Fiona pulls her hands out of the pockets of her coat and starts walking up the steps. To Mickey’s surprise, she stops next to him. “Good to see you again.” She leans down to squeeze his shoulder, and Mickey nods to her in return. “You two are welcome inside, you know. Don’t gotta freeze your asses off out here. I’m headin’ right to bed anyways.” With that, she smiles at them one more time and disappears inside.

Ian sits down again. “Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly. “Forgot she was out.”

“There’s way too many of you fucking Gallaghers,” Mickey mutters. “You got another cigarette on you, firecrotch?”

Ian chuckles. “’Course I got another cigarette.” He reaches into his pocket, taps one out of the carton, and hands it over to Mickey. Once it’s between Mickey’s lips, Ian leans in close again and lights it. “You gotta share though.”

Mickey takes a long drag. “Whatever.”

“So, uh, what was that for?”

“What was what for?”

“The kiss, you asshole,” Ian laughs. “What brought that on?”

“Dunno,” Mickey answers, shrugging. “I just—I know I wasn’t any good at telling you what I was thinking before, when we were together. Know you had to, like, guess and shit most of the time. Don’t want to do that again. I still kind of hate you sometimes, but it’s—it doesn’t matter, compared to everything else. Just wanted to show you where I stand, you know, with us, I guess. What I want.”

“Oh.” Ian stays quiet after that, only moving when Mickey hands the cigarette to him.

“You gotta give me something here, man,” Mickey complains, after a solid five minutes go by of Ian just staring silently into the distance. “You gotta have something to say.”

“Shit, sorry,” Ian says, with an awkward smile. “I’m just not very good at this.”

Mickey guffaws at that. “Fuck you you’re not good at this. You were always the one running your mouth, saying what you felt every fucking second.”

Ian rolls his eyes and knocks their shoulders together again. “I only seemed open in comparison to you, Mick,” he laughs. “Was never much better than you. My family will back me up on that.”

“Fine,” Mickey grunts. “How ‘bout we start with whether or not you got a boyfriend?”

“What? No, no boyfriend. You thought I had a boyfriend?”

Mickey hopes the intense relief he feels at the confirmation doesn’t show on his face. “Okay. No, I don’t know. It’s just that Iggy said something about you having one, so—”

“Jesus, fucking Lip,” Ian mutters. “Running his fucking mouth. I had a boyfriend for a while, but we broke up well before Thanksgiving. He was just lying again.”

“Were you two still together during that, uh, last visit?” Mickey’s not sure why he asks. It doesn’t really matter, but he can’t help but think of the way Ian grinned at him when he asked about dinner. He wonders if he had misinterpreted it.

Ian chews on his bottom lip, and Mickey knows the answer before he speaks. “Sort of, yeah,” he admits. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I probably should have, right? I just—I didn’t think you’d want to talk about that. We were on the rocks by then though. Didn’t last much longer. I keep your letters in my um—desk at my apartment, and he found them. Thought they were love letters and lost it.”

“Seriously? Those things? I feel like I mostly talked about my cellmate’s farting habits.”

“Oh yes, good old Danny. It was all very romantic.”

Mickey can’t help but laugh. The letters might not have had any sappy declarations of love in them, but there was more to them, sitting underneath the surface. He might hate this mystery ex-boyfriend on principle, but the guy certainly wasn’t naïve. “He dump you for that?”

“I dumped him. He did something I didn’t like.”

“Yeah, that’s not vague at all.”

Ian sighs, running a hand down his face. “It’s gonna sound stupid.”

“Try me.”

“Fine,” Ian groans, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. “He's an art student.”

“And how old was this art _student_?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

Mickey snorts and kicks his boot against Ian’s. “Tell me he was at least eighteen.”

“Of course he was, Jesus. Just let me tell the fucking story.” Mickey keeps laughing, but Ian presses on anyways. “He drew this picture of me. He did that a lot, actually. Liked my cheekbones or something. He made everything in black and white except for, like, one trait at a time—like just the eyes or hair would be in color, you know? After a while I told him about my disease. A few months later, the fucker tells me a picture he drew of me won some award. So I come to the showing, and there I am, hanging up and all in color, except my fucking brain." 

“Shit.”

“Drew that part in black. And there were, like, these hands with sharp nails and twisted faces drawn inside of it. Said it was supposed to be morbidly beautiful or something. Like he had any idea what he was talking about. Like he had any right. Didn’t even ask me, just hung it up there for everyone to see. Didn’t even get why I was pissed. Just wish he had fucking asked.”

Mickey thinks of the holes in his walls. He thinks of the guy running his hands over them and laughing. “I’m sorry, Ian.”

“It’s fine. I probably overreacted. I do that.”

“You didn’t.”

Ian glances over at him with a small smile. He reaches across the step and tugs at Mickey’s coat sleeve until Mickey relents and presses next to him again. Ian drapes his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, and Mickey lets him. “I’m scared I’m gonna fuck this up.”

“Would we even still be us without one of us fucking up?” Mickey asks, tilting his head until it’s resting on Ian’s shoulder.

“Don’t know,” Ian says. “Maybe we should hang out first though. So you can figure out if you even still like me. What do you think?”

“Like a date?”

“Yeah, like a date.”

Mickey looks out past the fence. He remembers the MPs pulling Ian through it and shoving him into the back of their car. He remembers Sammi standing in the door, smirking down at them, as the car drove away with Ian trapped inside. They were going to go on their first date. They were going to be okay. And then it all just fell apart.

Sammi isn’t here anymore though, and the MPs aren’t looking for Ian. His father is in jail. There isn’t a wedding ring on his finger. Maybe there are no monsters left to tear them apart. Maybe it’s just up to them now. “Yeah, whatever, we can do that. But you bring me flowers or some girly shit, and I’ll kick your ass."

“No flowers. Noted.” After a long pause, Ian speaks again. “There’s a lot I still have to tell you.”

“I know. Don’t gotta talk about it now.”

“Okay,” Ian says. “You wanna go inside?”

“Nah, look, you can actually kind of see the stars.”

Mickey feels Ian shift and knows he’s looking up. “Well, would you look at that,” he sighs. “Wanna talk about our hopes and dreams?”

“Fuck you, Ian,” Mickey laughs. “Let’s just stay out here for another minute, alright?”

“Yeah, alright.” Ian lightly squeezes his shoulder. “Long as you want, Mick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kiss just in time for Valentine's Day. :)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	7. The Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wishes he could give Mickey only the good parts of himself. He wishes he could take a knife and carve out the ugliness that lives inside of him, the pieces of him that still hate the pills, that still want to run away and never come back sometimes.

The living room is a mess. Even more so than usual. Crumpled beer cans cover the floor and stick out from the couch cushions. A single piece of pizza with only one bite taken out of it lays cheese down on the rug. There’s a sweatshirt balled up on the end of the couch and blankets strewn across it and on to the coffee table, creating a sad, makeshift bed.

“Jesus Christ, Lip.” Ian Gallagher throws down his duffel bag and holds his forearm over his nose to try to block out the smell of stale beer. It’s freezing out, but he opens the windows anyways. With Frank sober now, it’s a smell he’s grown far less accustomed to.

The kitchen is somehow worse. There are dirty dishes covered in soggy takeout bags piling up in the sink. Partially empty pizza boxes are stacked on the counter, there are even more beer cans on the floor along with some empty bottles of the hard stuff, and everything fucking reeks. He doesn’t even want to think about what Lip’s bedroom looks like.

Grudgingly, he starts cleaning up. Luckily there’s some Febreze left under the sink. The strong, flowery smell gives him a headache, but at least he doesn’t feel like gagging anymore. He’s exhausted from fixing the back door at home that morning and a long, shitty afternoon at work, but if he doesn’t scour the apartment right away he’s sure he’ll lose his nerve and go running right back to Fiona’s.

_Classic Monica Gallagher._ Ian can’t stop hearing Lip sneer those words at him. _Classic Monica Gallagher._ They echo in his head and make his stomach clench. He doesn’t want to be Monica. He’s been fighting against that current since he woke up in the hospital and saw Lip sobbing at the end of his bed. He doesn’t want to be someone who runs anymore—for his family, for Mickey, for himself. So he’s not running. He’s going to live in this stupid apartment he pays half the rent for with his stupid, nosy as shit brother, even if it kills him.

This is where he needs to be, and this is who he needs to be now—someone who can stay when things get hard. He could barely sleep last night, after Mickey left. He keeps thinking about the kiss, about how soft his lips had been, about how his hands felt so good against Ian’s body, even with gloves and layers of clothing separating them. The memory of it somehow leaves him feeling exultant and panicked at the same time. He isn’t sure if he can do things right this time or if he even deserves a second chance, but he doesn’t think he could walk away now even if he wanted to.

Just as he finishes vacuuming pizza crumbs off the living room floor, he hears the front door open. He turns his back to the door, trying to brace himself for the barrage of shit Lip is undoubtedly about to send his way. He just hopes the asshole isn’t already wasted.

“Fuck!” A startled yelp rings out, and Ian can’t help but laugh. When he turns around, Lip is leaning against the far wall with one hand clutching his chest. There’s a takeout bag on the floor in front of him. “Jesus fuck, Ian. You couldn’t give me a fucking heads up? What are you doing here?”

“I live here, douchebag."

“Oh yeah? Since when?”

“Fuck off. I’ve been gone two weeks, don’t act like it’s been two years.” Ian finishes wrapping the cord around the back of the vacuum and then shoves it into the corner. “You gotta learn to clean up your shit, man. This place looked like a crack house. You’re gonna be thirty soon.”

“The fuck you know about crack houses?”

“More than you thanks to Monica.”

Lip opens his mouth and then snaps it shut, suddenly looking uncomfortable. His eyes fall to the floor, darting around and eventually landing on Ian’s bag. “So you just come by to play maid for a while or you back for good?”

There’s a slight hitch to his brother’s voice that most people probably wouldn’t pick up on. He’s not looking at Ian either, eyes still focused on the duffel bag. For all his bravado, Lip can be vulnerable just like the rest of them. That gives Ian some satisfaction and begins to ease his anger somewhat. “Back for good. Not gonna let you being an asshole rob me of my five minute commute."

Lip laughs and finally looks back up. “Too spoiled to take the El like everyone else now, huh?”

“Yeah, guess I am. Everything smells like piss. And an old lady sneezed in my mouth the other day.” Ian walks forward to grab his bag and notices Lip flinch away just slightly. The barely perceptible movement fills him with guilt. He remembers the crack of his knuckles against Lip’s ribs and cringes. When that kind of rage builds inside him, old instincts have an ugly habit of taking over. It scares him, the way anger makes his blood pulse and his fingers twitch. He wishes he could just scrub it all away, wring the violence and restlessness from his bones.

“You alright?”

“What?”

“You look—I don’t know, you looked like you were thinking.”

“You the only one in this family allowed to think now, Einstein?” Ian teases. He slings the bag over his shoulder and walks it to his room. Everything is still sitting where he left it. At least Lip’s hurricane didn’t make it past his door.

“You uh—you want a burger? I was a fatass and got two.” Lip grabs the takeout from the floor and holds it up.

Ian shuts his door and leans against it. He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Just because I’m back here doesn’t mean we’re okay, you know.”

Lip frowns, running his free hand through his hair. “Ian—”

“Just, don’t, let me talk first. Just let me get this out.” Ian holds up his hand to silence his brother, who nods. “And don’t get defensive. You always get so fucking defensive. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You saved my life, okay? I’m not gonna forget that just ‘cos I’m pissed at you. But I’m doing okay now. I’m doing everything I gotta do. I take my pills, I go to the gym practically every day, I barely drink, I got a job I don’t hate, I go to therapy, I—I do it all. I’m doing it for _me_. And I’m doing it for you and Fiona and Debs and fucking everyone else who still gives a shit about me. And you thinking I’m just gonna throw that all away because Mickey’s back—”

“Christ, it’s not about you, Ian. He’s—”

“He’s not the issue here, _we_ are. You don’t trust me.”

“Shut the fuck up. I trust you.”

“If you trusted me, you would’ve told me the truth and let me make my own decisions,” Ian snaps. “I’m a fucking adult, Lip. You’re not my keeper, you’re my _brother_. You spout your equal partners bullshit and then treat me like a child anyways. I’m done with it. No more, alright? I get why you were freaked out, but you need to come to me with this shit. You can’t just fucking decide you know what’s best for me.”

Lip’s jaw clenches and shifts. “Alright.” He says it so quietly, Ian barely hears him.

“What was that?”

“Oh, fuck you.” Lip rolls his eyes, smirking. “I said alright. And now I’m saying I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to do. Won’t happen again.”

A bemused grin breaks out on Ian’s face. “I’m gonna need you to say that again.”

“I said _sorry_ , shithead,” Lip laughs, shaking his head. “You happy now? Can we drop this and go back to being brothers please? Jesus.”

“Well, that’s a fucking first.”

“Yeah, first and last most likely, so savor it.” Lip heads into the kitchen. “You want one of these burgers or not? Not gonna let ‘em get cold arguing with you.”

“Yeah, I’ll have a fucking burger. Grab plates and napkins like a civilized human being though. I don’t feel like having to scrub this place down again.” Ian feels lighter when he plops down on to the couch and grabs the remote. No matter how much he’s resented Lip in the past, his brother has always been his best friend and his most trusted confidant. Mickey coming back into his life has turned his entire world upside down, and he doesn’t know who the hell he’s supposed to talk to about it if he can’t talk to Lip.

After they’ve finished their food and an episode of Law and Order they’ve probably seen a hundred times winds down, Lip turns to him from the armchair. “So what’s going on with you?”

“I should be asking you that. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Frank had been crashing here.”

“Whatever, man," Lip huffs. "I felt shitty about everything. Nothing more to it than that.”

“Could’ve just apologized two weeks ago, you know. I would’ve come back.”

“Like it’s that fucking easy,” Lip scoffs. “Look, if I don’t have so much as a beer tonight, can we talk about your shit instead of mine?”

Ian feels like he should press Lip on this a little more, but the offer is tempting. There’s so much buzzing around his brain that it’s getting harder and harder to focus on much of anything except Mickey and how the hell he’s supposed to handle all of this. He was dropping shit all day at work and getting orders wrong, and he’s not sure anyone was buying his migraine excuse. “I saw him last night. Mickey, I mean. He came by the house. Said he saw you first, and you were drunk off your ass.”

Lip runs a hand down his face. “Yeah, I sorta remember that. He thought you’d be here. No clue what I said to him. He tell you?”

“Not really, but I’ll get it out of him.”

“Hah, yeah, I’m sure you will,” Lip teases, raising his eyebrows. “So what happened?”

“I uh—I think we’re gonna go on a date.”

“Who? You and me? Where you taking me?”

Ian throws his empty water bottle at Lip’s head. “I’m taking _Mickey_ on a date. I asked, and he actually said yes.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And I’m freaking out!” Ian exclaims, throwing up his hands. “I don’t even—I don’t—” Ian’s voice trails off when he notices Lip smirking at him. “What the fuck, man? You think this is funny? It’s not fucking funny.”

“Yeah, it sort of is, man.” Lip shrugs and continues smirking. “Dude, you’ve known Mickey since you were an idiot fifteen-year-old. Not like you gotta get to know him or whatever. Go somewhere, eat, go home—preferably to his place, so I don’t need to bleach my fucking brain—and bang the shit out of each other. What’s the problem?”

Ian feels his mouth fall open. “You can’t be serious right now.”

“Why’s it gotta be more complicated than that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I was a total asshole.”

“What, like he’s never been a total asshole to you?”

“That’s not the—”

“You know, you should take him to that diner down the street,” Lip interrupts, motioning over his shoulder. “Everything’s kind of sticky, but you know the food’s good and they spike the coffee. And almost all of those waiters are South Side. They won’t look twice at the knuckle tats. Though I suppose that means you’ll end up banging here…”

Ian barks out a laugh that makes Lip recoil a little. “How the—? That’s where I was planning on taking him.”

“ _See_ , I do listen sometimes.”

“Yeah, sure. Lucky guess.”

“Plus, they don’t close. So you can have a long ass heart-to-heart about all your issues like a couple of chicks, or you can just wait ‘til the place clears out and then blow each other in the bathroom.”

“Jesus, Lip, don't—” Ian starts, but his phone starts to ring. He scrambles off the couch like a jackass to grab it from the table. He’s expecting—or maybe just hoping—to see Mickey’s name, but that’s unfortunately not the one lighting up the screen at the moment. “Shit.”

“What? Who is it?” Lip’s eyes go wide when sees Ian’s face. “Ian?”

“Goddamnit.” Before Ian can talk himself out of it, he swipes his thumb across the screen and holds the phone to his ear. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

The question is greeted by a familiar giggle that makes every muscle in his body tense. “Oh, sweetie, of course I’m okay,” his mother coos. A horn blares in the background, and Monica giggles again. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, my sweet boy. How are you?”

“That why you called? To ask me how I am?”

“I’m _always_ wondering how you are, honey. I miss you every day, so much.”

Ian almost hangs up at that. He had only answered out of fear there might be someone else on the other end calling to tell him she was in the hospital or in prison or dead. But she sounds fine, and Ian’s not sure he can stand talking to her for a second longer. “Look, I gotta—”

“I need your help, Ian,” Monica explains, her voice louder. The sound of cars driving by gets louder as well. Her breathing is heavy and a little ragged, so Ian figures she must be walking somewhere. “I need—I need you to come pick me up. I’m really sorry, baby. I don’t want to put you out. I wouldn’t—you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency, right?”

“You okay?”

“Sure, sure, I’m okay, just like I said,” she answers, but her voice is shaky. He knows she’s lying. She starts sniffling and breathing even heavier. “I just—I’m not sure I can get home from where I am. That’s all. And I’m—I don’t think anyone’s going to pick me up, looking like this.”

“Looking like _what_?”

“It’s not important, sweetie. Just come and get your mom. Please? I need your help, and it would just be _so_ good to see you. I’ve missed you so much, you have no idea. I think about you all the time. About the time we went to that club and just danced all night. You remember that, right? We had so much fun. My favorite boy.” Ian doesn’t answer her right away. He’s too busy trying to ignore the way her words soothe something inside of him, the way it makes him feel warm and relaxed. He does remember that night. He remembers feeling happy and free and so, so sure that everything would be different this time. That she would try to get better. That she wouldn’t leave him again. “Ian? Baby? Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” Ian chokes out. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m uh—where do you need me to go?” He grabs one of the notebooks sticking out of Lip’s backpack and writes down the address she gives him. “I’m leaving now. Just stay where you are,” he says, before hanging up.

Lip is staring at him when he slips his phone into his pocket. “What the—?”

“I got to go.” Ian jumps up from the couch, throws on his coat, and then starts to quickly lace up his boots. “Need to borrow your car.” He reaches for the keys, but Lip grabs his wrist.

“To do what exactly? Who the fuck was that?”

Ian’s tempted to lie. He runs through a few different stories, eventually landing on one where Debs had a bad date and needs a ride home. But lying has almost always come back to bite him in the ass, and if he’s going to insist Lip be honest with him, Ian will have to do the same. “Monica.”

Lip rips the keys from his hand. “No fucking way.”

“She didn’t sound good, alright? And she’s in the middle of fucking nowhere. We can’t just leave her there. She’s our fucking mother.”

“No, she isn’t,” Lip hisses, holding the keys behind his back and out of Ian’s reach. “She’s a fucking hurricane, is what she is. You think this is a coincidence? We finally work out our shit, and then she just calls? This is the universe making sure nothing ever goes right for us.”

“I’ll just drive her—”

“You’re not gonna _just_ do anything, Ian. She’s gonna say whatever you want to hear and then she’s gonna tear apart your life, like she always does. What the hell has she ever done for you? For us? Just fucking leave her there.”

“No. She needs our help. She’s family.” Ian knows he’s won with that. _Family_. That word means something to them, even if theirs has always been a mess. “How about you come with me?”

Lip’s face softens and he lets out a long sigh. “Any chance I can talk you outta this?"

“Nope.” Ian shakes his head.

”Fine,” Lip gives in. “Gotta make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

“Yeah, alright,” Ian laughs, throwing his arm around Lip’s shoulder, as his brother starts slipping on his shoes. “Thanks, man.”

“Whatever,” Lip mutters, shrugging off his arm. “If you’re going to do something stupid, I’m not letting you do it alone. What the fuck are brothers for?”

 

* * *

 

They’ve been driving in silence for nearly ten minutes. Neither of them has said a word or moved to even turn on the radio. Ian doesn’t want to talk about Monica or what any of this means. He already knows what Lip will say anyways. So he just leans his head back and lets his hand coast up and down outside the passenger side window. The cold air helps distract him from thinking about whatever’s waiting for him at the address his mother gave him.

“So you really want to try again, huh?”

“Try what?”

“You and Mickey,” Lip clarifies, as he reaches for the carton of cigarettes on his center console. Ian smacks his hand away and knocks one out for him instead. “You really ready for that clusterfuck again?”

“Clusterfuck?” Ian lights the cigarette, takes a few puffs, and then passes it over to Lip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, don’t act like you two were all sunshine and rainbows,” Lip complains, blowing smoke in his direction. “You know what you were like.”

“Maybe I don’t,” Ian grumbles. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Lip opens his window too, even though his teeth are chattering. “You know, hot and cold, up and down. One second you’re like a couple of fucking newlyweds, the next second you’re at each other’s throats like a pair of rival thugs." 

“You calling us bipolar?” Ian laughs. “That what you’re trying to say?”

Lip smacks Ian’s arm with the back of his hand. “Not funny, asshole.” He takes another long drag of the cigarette. “I know how good that kind of relationship can be, man. It’s basically the only kind I’m interested in. I’m not trying to be a hypocrite here. Just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing long-term relationships are made of.”

Ian knows Lip isn’t exactly wrong. He and Mickey were never a stable couple. Hell, it was an epic battle to even get to the point where they could both agree they even were a couple at all. But they were something special at their best, and Ian has never been able to feel the way he felt with Mickey with anyone else—like he was safe and leaning over the edge of a mountain at the same time, like he was flying and only Mickey’s hands could ground him. Even if they fall back into that ugly pattern, Ian thinks it might all be worth it just to feel like that again.

When Ian doesn’t answer, Lip fills the silence. “You still love him?”

“Debs asked me the same thing,” Ian sighs. “I don’t know. Yeah, probably.”

Lip hands back the cigarette. “Alright then.”

Ian snorts. “That all you got to say?" 

“Fuck no, but we have unfortunately reached our destination.” Lip turns the wheel, and they take a sharp turn. “Buckle up, ladies and gentlemen, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.” As they pull into the parking lot of a dollar store and a sad looking pizza place, Ian’s hand curls into a fist outside the window. His eyes glance around, trying to spot her in the darkness, but he can’t see her yet. He’s not sure if finding her or not finding her scares him more.

Lip parks the car and leans back in his seat. “Think she’s in the dollar store? I could see her thinking she needs to buy you something. Probably got it in her head she’d find something special, be mom of the fucking year.”

“I—uh, maybe.” Ian feels his stomach sink. He thinks about getting Mickey little things after getting a hand job from some random or letting a guy get too handsy at the club. It was never anything big, just a pack of his favorite beer or a t-shirt from Goodwill he thought Mickey would like. Mickey would grin and thank him and Ian would tell himself everything was perfect, that Mickey wouldn’t look at him like that if he didn’t deserve it.

Just as they both throw open their doors, Monica comes stumbling out of the store with a glaring woman close at her heels. “You can’t pay, you can get the fuck out!” the woman screams, pushing Monica on to the concrete. “You’re bleeding all over my fucking floor!”

Blood is running down the side of his mother’s face, blending violently into the dirty white fabric of her sweatshirt. It’s coming from a gash just above her eyebrow. Her lip is bloody too, swollen and bruised. The instinct to fight flares up in him. He wants to know who did this to her. He wants to punch the bastard until he’s too broken to ever touch another woman again.

“Mom?”

Lip gapes at him, but Ian doesn’t care. He can barely focus on anything but the blood. Monica has tears in her eyes, but she grins wide when she sees him. The way she looks at him makes him feel like his chest is bursting. He tries to push the feeling away, tries to remind himself that that look means nothing in the end, but she’s already throwing her arms around him.

“Oh, Ian, you came. Thank you, baby.” She tightens her arms around his waist and buries her bruised face in his chest. “I knew you would. I can always count on you.” Ian returns the embrace, running a cautious hand through her tangled hair.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Monica grins even wider when she sees Lip on the other side of the car, and Ian hates himself for the spark of jealousy he feels. _He didn’t even want to come for you,_ he wants to scream. _He doesn’t understand us._ “Lip! Oh, both of my beautiful boys! What a treat!”

She moves to hug Lip as well, but he backs away from her. “What the fuck happened to you, Monica?” he repeats. “Who did this?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Really. I bet it just looks worse than it really is.”

“It’s nothing, huh? Because it _looks_ like someone kicked the shit out of you.” Lip shakes his head and ducks back into his car for another cigarette.

“It’s my fault. Your mom is just losing it a little in her old age.” Monica laughs loudly, as she clutches at the sides of her sweatshirt and pulls them around her middle. The sound of it sends a chill through Ian’s body. She had laughed like that when Ian came home one night to the shitty house they were crashing in with a black eye from some random guy on the street who thought he looked too much like a fag. She told him just to look straighter next time, not to flaunt himself so much. Resentment mixes in with the relief and jealousy and affection all swirling around inside him until he has no idea what he’s actually feeling.

“What’s that mean, Monica?” Lip presses.

“It’s just that Walter, well, he’s got this temper. Oh, Ian, you remember Walter, right?”

“That teenage meth dealer you were fucking like eight years ago?”

Monica doesn’t even blink at the description. “Yes! That’s him! We broke up a while back, but I kind of took some of his supply with me when I left. He wasn’t happy. I got sloppy, and he finally found me. Took my car with him. That’s why I’m stuck out here. Thank God for you sweet—”

“I’m calling the fucking cops.”

Monica is on Lip before he can even pull his phone from his back pocket. “No! You can’t do that! I’m fine, I promise. I just need a ride. That’s all. I promise, sweetie. I’m fine. Don’t do that. That’ll just make things worse.”

“This asshole beat you up! And we’re what? Supposed to do nothing?”

“He’s just emotional,” she tries to assure them. She speaks softly, running her hands up and down Lip’s arms. “A real sensitive soul, you know? And I stole from him. I shouldn’t have done that. But he’s got the car now, so it’s all okay. I just want to go home. Please just bring me home.”

_Home._ He doesn’t know what that word means for his own mother anymore. He’s probably never known what it means to her. He doubts she ever really saw the North Wallace Street house as home, just a place to stay in between her bullshit adventures. “And where the hell is that?” Ian snaps. “Give us the address. Let’s get this over with.” Monica’s face falls, but he doesn’t give a shit. He’s starting to think this all was a giant mistake. Maybe he _should_ be letting Lip make all of his decisions.

They all get back into the car. Monica takes the back seat, but she leans forward between them, so she’s practically sitting up front with them. “We can go to the police station, a shelter, or a hospital,” Lip announces, once all of their doors are closed. “Your pick, Monica.”

“I’m fine!” she insists again. “No need for that!” She pats Lip on the shoulder, and he flinches away from her again. “I’m fine now, I promise. I’ve got a good girlfriend now, real sweet. Takes care of me. I’ve always liked women better, you know. I’m so happy now. Just bring me home, okay? Janelle is going to worry if I’m not home soon." 

“Why couldn’t _Janelle_ pick you up?”

“Oh, she’s real busy. Working to support us. I wouldn’t want to bother her.”

Ian’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t want to know what kind of _work_ this new girlfriend does. He doesn’t even want to know where they live, but it seems to be too late for that. “Fine, Monica. Where are we going?”

The house she directs them to looks like it is decaying. He’s not sure if it’s possible, but Ian could swear the roof is sinking. Half the windows are broken and shoddily covered with pieces of cardboard, if covered at all. There are broken bottles and cigarette butts strewn across the crumbling front steps. Ian looks down at his hands, willing himself not to feel bad for Monica. He tries to tell himself that she brought all of this upon herself, that if she had ever actually tried she might not be here, but it does nothing to relieve the knots in his stomach.

“You _sure_ you don’t want to go to a shelter?”

“Thank you so much for rescuing me, boys.” Monica leans over the console and pulls them both into awkward, weakly returned hugs. “I knew you’d come,” she whispers to Ian, as she twists her arms around his neck and presses a kiss to his temple. She runs a soft hand through his hair, and he does his best not to lean into the touch. “You’re my favorite boy, you know that?”

He wants to tell her about his job. He wants to tell her about taking online classes, something he hasn’t even told the rest of his family yet. He wants to tell her about Mickey coming back, about how it feels like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest every time he thinks about their kiss. None of it will matter though. None of it will make her care enough to stick around. _My favorite boy._ Those are just words to her, pretty and meaningless. Words she uses to get what she wants, only to forget she ever said them moments later. They don’t matter to her, and they shouldn’t matter to him after everything she’s put him through. He wishes so badly they didn’t.

“Bye, Monica.”

He thinks he sees a flash of hurt in her eyes, but she’s smiling again so quickly, he can’t say for sure. She plants another kiss on his cheek and then falls back to reach for her door. “I love you both so much,” she says, as she pushes it open. “Visit any time you like, okay? You’re always welcome here. My knights in shining armor.”

Ian remains staring ahead, fixating on a dead leaf stuck in the windshield wipers, while Lip looks back and grunts something incoherent at her. She leaves, and Ian watches as she practically dances up to the front door. A young woman with dark hair and tired eyes answers, and Monica squeals, pulling her into a long kiss. There’s still blood running down her face, and Ian has to look away. “Just drive, man. Please.”

 

* * *

 

They drive around for over an hour after that with no particular destination in mind. Ian’s glad Lip doesn't immediately drive them home. He’s not sure he would’ve been able to stay put, and he certainly wouldn’t have been able to sleep.

They eventually end up at the Alibi, sitting across from each other in one of the booths. They’re in the corner by the back, as far away from everyone else as they can manage. Lip has already downed two beers and is waving at Kev for a third. Ian is still working on his first, more focused on peeling away the label around the bottle than actually drinking it. He’s wondering if Monica was really in that store to buy him something. He’s wondering if she thought a cheap knickknack would make everything okay.

“You think we should’ve tried to help her more?”

“Thought that’s what we did, driving out there.”

“You know what I mean.”

Lip looks away from the bar and stares at him, like he’s searching Ian’s face for something. “Wouldn’t work. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. She doesn’t want it, Ian. She doesn’t want us. Never will.”

Ian stops picking at the label, electing to chug the bottle’s remaining contents instead. “You don’t get it, how hard it is.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” The words _you’re right_ coming out of Lip’s mouth is enough to make him sit up and pay attention. “But _you_ ended up making the decision that the people in your life were important enough to make those sacrifices for, that we mattered enough for you to try and get help. Monica never made that decision. That’s the fucking difference.”

Kev’s at the end of their booth before Ian can really absorb what Lip has said. “What, you dying of thirst or something? Run some kind of marathon before coming here?” Kev laughs, as he drops another beer in front of Lip. “Gotta pace yourself, bro.”

“I'm fine. Just keep them coming.”

“Can I get another too, Kev?”

The smile on Kev’s face immediately falls away. He looks over at Lip instead of Ian, like he’s waiting for approval. Ian wants to snap at him, wants to remind him that he’s a fucking adult who knows how many beers he can handle, but he bites his tongue. He knows Kev is only doing it out of concern, and he doesn’t think he can handle a fight tonight.

“What you looking at _me_ for?” Lip pushes his new beer across the table to Ian. “My brother here’s an adult last I checked. Barely a year apart, me and him. Irish twins. We’ll take another round.” Lip grins at Ian, and Ian can’t help but grin back. If they weren’t separated by a table, Ian probably would’ve hugged him. “I’m gonna call Debs. Get her over here and make this a party.”

“Sorry, man,” Kev says to him, as Lip slips out of the booth and makes his way to the front. “Didn’t mean to like, you know—”

“It’s cool. Don’t worry about it. We just had a rough night.”

“Well, there better be a fucking story at least. If I gotta hear another one of these poor fucks groan about being late on their taxes, I’m gonna kill myself.” Ian feels himself grimace, but he doesn’t think Kev notices. “I’ll get you guys more drinks.”

When he’s left alone, Ian considers what Lip said, that Ian had made the choice to get better for the people in his life. It isn’t over just because he made that decision though. It will never be over. There are still days when Ian feels like he’s being weighed down by a wet blanket and every little thing he does—getting out of bed, brushing his teeth, eating, making the five minute walk to work—feels like an almost impossible effort. There are still days when he awkwardly fumbles over his words with a customer or out with friends and misses the easy confidence of his manic phases, of how he felt like he could take on the entire fucking world by himself. On those days, he’ll stare at his pills before taking them. He’ll dally getting water from the sink. He'll let the pills rest on his palm for a while, as he pictures himself throwing them to the floor and crushing them under his shoe. So far, he’s always taken them in the end. But that doesn’t mean he always will.

A hand claps his shoulder. “Relax, man. I could hear you thinking from outside,” Lip jokes, as he slips back into the booth. “Don’t let her get to you.”

“Do you really think I’m like her?”

“Come on, don’t do that, Ian,” Lip says, but Ian only hears, _yeah I do but I don’t want to freak you out by telling you that right now._ His gut churns and his head starts to swim a little. The second beer probably wasn’t a good idea, but he still accepts a third when Kev brings it over. “I told you. You made the decision to get help. She didn’t.”

“It kills me to see her,” Ian admits. He looks down at the table instead of his brother, tapping his fingertips against the sticky wood. “Fucks with my head. I always hope it will be the last time she shows up and then I feel like a fucking asshole for thinking it.”

Lip doesn’t argue with him, just nods slowly and chugs his beer like someone’s going to take it away from him.

 

* * *

 

“Things were going too well,” Debbie reasons, slurring her words slightly. There are empty shot glasses lined up along her and Lip’s side of the table, like a sad little wall. “We all got jobs now. Well, except Carl, but he still makes more money than the rest of us anyways. No one’s having a crisis. You two made up. She was bound to show up sooner or later. It’s like she’s got a sixth sense for it. Like, oh no, my kids might be _happy_ , better go and fuck that up.”

“Jus’ asked for a ride home. ‘S not a big deal.” Ian wipes some beads of sweat from his forehead, suddenly feeling very hot.

“And you think that’s gonna be the end of it? Jesus, Ian, how can you still be so naïve?” Lip laughs bitterly. “Fuck no. That ain’t the end of it. She saw we got a car. Probably noticed we got no holes in our shoes or jackets now. Knows we got some money. She’ll think she can get it outta you. Gonna be calling your ass every day with some pathetic sob story.”

Debbie nods along with Lip’s prediction. Ian has to grit his teeth to keep from snapping at them. They think Monica will come to him because he’s the weakest, the most likely to fold under her false promises. A predator always stalks the weakest of the pack, and Ian is so fucking sick of being seen that way. But it’s not the right time to argue with them. Not when all of his thoughts feel like wisps of smoke, so clear one second and then completely gone the next. He's only taken a few sips of the third beer, but he's starting to regret it. “Whatever,” he mumbles, “She—she’s not gonna get shit from me.”

“Damn _right_! To Monica! May she stay the fuck outta our lives!” Debbie bellows, holding up the last full shot glass before taking it. Her face scrunches up at the taste and she reaches for Lip’s beer. After taking a sip, she coughs loudly and starts fanning her hand in front of her bright red face. “Fuck, we might need Fiona to herd our drunk asses home after this. Or maybe we can get Frank over here to do it. He sure as hell owes us.”

“I don’t think we should talk about this around Frank,” Ian blurts out, without thinking. _I still love that mess of a human being._ He thinks about Frank’s hand on his back, about how the sun peeked out from behind the clouds and danced along the top of Lake Michigan, and about the broken look in his deadbeat, not-really-father’s eyes. He’d go after her again. He’d try to convince her to come back, to love him, to stay. She’d stick around for a few weeks, maybe a month, and then she’d leave again. It’s not fair. He might hate Frank, but it’s still not fair. “He’ll go after her.”

The both squint at him, furrowing their brows. “Since when do you give a shit about Frank?”

“They’ve been getting along recently,” Debbie informs Lip. “Well, not like _getting along_ , but they’re acknowledging each other’s existence.”

“He just wants money,” Ian grumbles. After he and Frank got back in the car that day, his not-father almost immediately launched into a spiel about how his life was in danger from some drug-peddling kid who lived down the street. Ian eventually gave him the cash just to shut him up. “You really want him bringing her ‘round the house though? You really want him to start drinkin’ again once she fucks off? Been a while since the house smelled like vomit, might as well keep it that way.”

Lip tips his beer to Ian. “He’s got a point, sis.”

They both look to Debbie for her response, but she doesn’t seem to be listening anymore. Her eyes have drifted toward the bar. A smile stretches across her face and she starts waving. “Hey!” she practically shrieks, making Lip scowl. “Come over! Join us!”

Ian almost groans. He has no desire to deal with one of Debbie’s obnoxious waitress friends tonight. A couple of them seem to take him being gay as some sort of challenge, like if they hit on him aggressively enough, he’ll suddenly forget that he loves cock. He’s thinking of excuses he and Lip can use to get the hell out of there when a familiar weight sinks in beside him. Their arms brush, and Ian feels his heart start to speed up. His hair’s a mess, he’s wearing a dirty Patsy’s Pies t-shirt, and he smells like fried food, but he’s perfect. “Mickey?” Ian whispers. “Wha—what are you doing here?”

“Getting drunk.” Mickey’s clutching at his glass of beer like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His eyes flit around their table, taking the mess in. When they land on the three bottles in front of Ian, his shoulders tense up around his neck. He can see the concern in Mickey’s eyes and watches closely as his ex-boyfriend opens his mouth and then closes it again, seeming to think better about whatever he was about to say. “What happened to you lot? Getting wasted for a reason, or this just a normal Saturday night?”

Lip snorts into his beer. “Normal Saturday night for us these days is Debs changing baby diapers, me holing up in the campus library, and Ian passing out before eleven.”

Ian feels himself blushing, but Lip’s not wrong. It’s hard for him to stay awake for long after his nighttime meds. Most nights he’s asleep by ten or eleven, sometimes even earlier depending on when he’s got to be up for work.

“So what’s the deal then? Someone die?”

“Nope, came back to life, actually,” Lip answers. “Like a batshit crazy, needy Jesus.”

“The fuck?”

Ian scoots a little closer to Mickey, letting their knees knock together, and leans in. “Our mom came back,” he says quietly. “We—uh, we’re trying not to think ‘bout it.”

“Would you stop fucking calling her mom already?” Lip complains. “When she ever been a fucking _mom_?”

“When she pushed us out of her vagina, for one,” Debbie argues. “It’s biology, Lip. Can’t deny that, right? Aren’t you ‘sposed to be the smart one?”

“Oh, fuck off, Debs.”

His siblings start to snipe at each other over what exactly counts as a _mom_ , but Ian isn’t paying attention. Mickey has angled himself towards him slightly, his blue eyes darting around Ian’s face and then back and forth from one of Ian’s eyes to the other. “You alright?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t look alright.”

“Well, I am. Glad you’re here.”

The corners of Mickey’s lips tug up slightly. The little smile makes Ian feel even warmer than he already does. Mickey thumbs at his nose and drops eye contact, focusing on the collar of Ian's flannel shirt instead. “Yeah uh—yeah, you too.”

Ian’s breath catches when Mickey moves the hand on his own lap to Ian’s knee instead. His thumb starts to brush over the space just above his kneecap. The touch isn’t sexual. It’s nothing like the guys from the club, who would sneak in touches like this when the bouncers weren’t looking. Those brief moments of contact were loaded with want, communicating everything they wanted to do to Ian, everything they wanted him to do to them. But this gentle touch is real intimacy. This is Mickey simply letting him know he’s here if he needs him.

His own hand twitches on top of the table. He wants to reach under and take Mickey’s hand in his own to show him just how glad he is that he's here—in the Alibi, in Chicago, in Ian’s life again. Fear makes him stay still though. Fear that as soon as Mickey realizes who Ian really is and what he’s capable of, he’ll never touch him like this again. He wishes he could give Mickey only the good parts of himself. He wishes he could take a knife and carve out the ugliness that lives inside of him, the pieces of him that still hate the pills, that still want to run away and never come back sometimes.

“You sure you’re alright?” Mickey grips his knee a little tighter. There’s still a smile playing on his full, soft lips. It’s earnest and a little awkward, and if they weren’t surrounded by people, Ian probably wouldn’t be able to resist pressing a kiss against that smile while he still could.

“Um—yeah, Mick. I’m—I’m alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is Mickey again! It will pick up right after this one. Thank you for reading :)


	8. The Gallagher Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels good to be with other people, people he’s actually sort of comfortable with, people that seemingly don’t hate him like he thought they might. It feels good to be wrapped up in Ian Gallagher, even if he’s a sweaty, swaying mess that smells like puke and cigarettes. It feels good to just have fun, to not think about all the shit that’s wrong in his life for one second. It feels good.

The smell of fried food and grease follows Mickey Milkovich everywhere, even miles away from the diner. A shower should be his top priority, but he desperately needs a drink after the day he’s had. All last night and all day at work, he couldn’t stop thinking about Ian fucking Gallagher and his stupid green eyes and his perfect lips. He dropped so many dishes thinking about that redheaded fucker, he’s surprised Sean didn’t fire him.

Now that he knows Ian has his number, Mickey has been practically glued to his phone. They agreed to a date, but they never discussed when or where. Every hour that goes by without a call or text or fucking smoke signal from Ian, anxiety builds in Mickey’s gut. He’s kind of terrified he somehow imagined their entire encounter on the Gallagher steps or that Ian is going to realize he doesn’t actually want Mickey back, that all of this has been a huge mistake.

He glances down at his phone for the thousandth time that day and wonders if he’s acting completely insane. It’s not like he and Ian ever called each other to set up times to meet before. They always just sort of found each other, learning each other’s habits and schedules and favorite places to hide as they went. Maybe Ian planned on just showing up at his door one day and announcing they were going to Sizzlers. Maybe he was blowing all of this dating shit way out of proportion.

There are still no texts or missed calls. He huffs, shuts the damn thing off, and shoves it in his pocket, determined not to look at it again for at least a few hours. He might be trying to do things right this time, but that didn’t mean he needed to act like some fucking girl about all of this. Pleased with his newfound self-control, he turns the corner and jogs the rest of the way to the Alibi. He can already feel the whiskey burning his throat and taste the cold beer on his tongue. The tension in his shoulders and the knots in his stomach start to loosen up just at the thought of it.

The place is packed. Mickey can’t remember the bar ever being this full unless someone had died or gotten hitched. It’s mainly the same crowd he remembers—tired, haggard-looking blue collar guys and a colorful assortment of petty criminals with ripped clothes and dirty boots. There are some cleaner clientele mixed in now though. Young men and women with weird hair and clothes that look worn but are obviously brand new. A few of them are wearing glasses that take up half their faces. They’re all looking around them, smiling like they’re in some kind of theme park instead of a shitty, ghetto bar for shitty, ghetto people. Mickey hates them.

“Holy shit on a stick. Milkovich, is that you? They seriously let you outta the joint early? Who’d ya blow to pull that off?”

“Fuck off, Tommy.” Mickey narrows his eyes and slips into the empty stool next to him, unfortunately the only one that seems to be open. “Who are all these assholes?”

“Hipsters,” Tommy answers solemnly, folding his hands together on the bar and shaking his head slowly, like he’s about to deliver a eulogy. “Invaded the whole fucking neighborhood. Like rats. Rats with money. Told Kev he should kick them out on their asses, but they pay like $10 a drink or something, so they ain’t going nowhere any time soon.”

“Shit, the drinks here are $10 now? I can’t afford that.”

“Only for _them_ ,” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “V takes the cheap shit, pours it into the nice bottles, and charges extra. We get the same cheap shit in the cheap bottles for the cheap price.”

“Fine by me.” Mickey leans over the bar, looking to get Kev’s attention, but he doesn’t see him. Instead, he flags down a dark-haired woman he doesn’t recognize and orders a boilermaker. He chugs nearly half the drink at once. After he burps, he waves to the bartender again, “Keep ‘em coming.”

“Rough day, Milkovich?”

“None of your fuckin’ business. Who’s this lady? Where’s Kev? He still owns this place, right?”

“Yeah, he’s over there with your boyfriend,” Tommy explains, pointing across the bar toward the bathrooms. _Your boyfriend._ Mickey’s stomach clenches at the words—a little from fear, a little from annoyance, and a little from something else. “Frank’s demon spawn have been throwing ‘em back all night, causing a fucking ruckus with their bitching. You here to meet ‘em?”

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Hey, don’t go back to acting like that again, man,” Tommy laughs. “No one gives a shit you’re a queer. ‘Specially not the hipsters. Christ, two of those man bun wearing douchebags were going at it right in front of the fucking bathrooms the other day. That shit would’ve gotten ‘em killed in my day. Times they are a’chaging, my friend.”

Mickey nods, but he isn’t really listening anymore. His eyes are scanning the bar, trying to spot Gallagher, because he doesn’t know who the hell else Tommy could mean by _your boyfriend_. Sure enough, he soon zeroes in on a shock of familiar red hair peeking over the back of the booth furthest toward the back. “Fuck.”

“What? You ladies get in a fight or something?”

“Or something.”

Mickey can’t really see Ian from where he’s sitting, but Debbie is clearly visible. She’s flushed red and a little shiny with sweat. There’s an arm draped around her shoulders that he’s pretty sure belongs to Lip. She’s talking quickly, waving her arms as she speaks, nearly knocking over the shot glasses surrounding her.

It makes him smile a little, seeing them all together. He’s not even angry that, presumably, Ian and Lip have made up. It’s a relief, actually. Mickey doesn’t want him coming back to pull them apart. As screwed up as they all are, he’s always envied the closeness of the Gallagher siblings. Terry made sure his kids had no chance at ever being like that. His father used to get a kick out of turning them on each other, like the time he made Colin beat the shit out of Iggy for taking the last slice of pizza. They never united against their shitty patriarch like the Gallaghers did, too afraid of the consequences of such a rebellion. They got used to being quiet and keeping to themselves, just hoping to get in and out of the house without getting their asses handed to them. Hell, the only one he’s ever really felt connected to at all is Mandy, and he hasn’t seen her in years.

“Dude, just go over. You look like a serial killer, staring like that.”

“Would you just shut—?”

“Hey!” A loud, high-pitched voice rings out over the din of the bar and cuts him off. He looks over Tommy’s shoulder to see Debbie looking right at him, waving. “Come over! Join us!”

The impulse to run hits him. He’s not sure he’s ready to face that many Gallaghers at once, especially when everything with him and Ian is still so up in the air. But Debbie is grinning at him, like she’s genuinely happy to see him, and he’s pretty sure only a total asshole would walk away from that. He sighs and gives her an awkward thumbs up.

As he slides into the booth next to Ian, he tries to pat down his hair a little, knowing it’s probably a mess. He lets his arm brush up against Ian’s, half expecting him to pull away, but Ian just leans closer. “Mickey? Wha—what are you doing here?”

Ian’s voice cracks and his words slur together slightly. “Getting drunk,” Mickey answers, not meeting any of their eyes. He looks around the table, taking in all of the empty bottles and glasses. He’s surprised they’re all still upright at the rate they seem to be going. He focuses particularly on the bottles in front of Ian. There are three that seem to belong to him. From what Mickey remembers from his long nights Googling Ian’s meds, that’s about three too many for his comfort. He’s about to ask Ian if he’s feeling okay but thinks better of it, remembering how much Ian always hated that question. He decides to direct it to the entire group instead, hoping to be subtle, “What happened to you lot? Getting wasted for a reason, or this just a normal Saturday night for you guys?”

Lip snorts, apparently amused by the question. The oldest Gallagher brother’s hair is damp with sweat and curling around his ears. When he leans across the table to answer, there’s a lopsided smirk on his face. “Normal Saturday night for us these days is Debs changing baby diapers, me holing up in the campus library, and Ian passing out before eleven.”

Mickey steals a glance at Ian, who’s looking down at his hands. His cheeks are red, but Mickey isn’t sure if that’s from the drinks or what his brother said. “So what’s the deal then? Someone die?”

“Nope, came back to life, actually,” Lip laughs, slapping a hand down on the table. “Like a batshit crazy, needy Jesus.”

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ “The fuck?”

A knee knocks against his, and Mickey looks over to see Ian has shifted even closer to him. Ian’s like a fucking furnace, radiating heat in the already too-hot bar, but Mickey doesn’t really mind. “Our mom came back,” Ian says softly. “We—uh, we’re trying not to think ‘bout it.”

_Our mom._ It suddenly feels like his stomach has dropped to his toes. Aside from his father miraculously showing up back in town, Monica Gallagher making an appearance is pretty much worst case scenario. Mickey has never actually met the woman, but she’s never meant good news for him and Ian. The first time he remembers her coming back, Kash caught them fucking in the coolers. The next time, Ian took off with her and came back a few weeks later to dump him, spitting out lines Mickey’s certain she put in his head.

“Would you stop fucking calling her mom already?” Lip snaps, glaring at Ian. “When she ever been a fucking _mom_?”

Debbie sneers something back at Lip, but Mickey doesn’t catch it. He’s too fixated on Ian, trying to gauge how he’s feeling. His eyes are glassy and his face is red and blotchy, but he doesn’t look upset. Ian’s always been good at hiding that though. “You alright?”

“Yep,” Ian says quickly, shooting him a small smile that Mickey doesn’t buy for a second.

“Don’t look alright.”

“Well, I am. Glad you’re here.” Ian smiles wider, and Mickey can’t help but smile back. It’s too fucking warm in their booth, especially with Ian pressed against him, but if Mickey could push even closer without looking ridiculous, he would. Mickey catches his eyes dropping to Ian’s lips and has to look away before he does something incredibly stupid.

“Yeah uh—yeah, you too.” Mickey clenches and then unclenches his hands a couple of times before finally reaching over in a quick jerky motion to rest one on Ian’s knee. He hears Ian gasp quietly and almost pulls his hand away. Instead, he takes a deep breath and begins to brush his thumb back and forth over his jeans. If Ian insists on claiming to be fine when he’s obviously not, Mickey just wants to let him to know he’s here if he needs him.

Ian tenses up, but he doesn’t move away from the touch. Mickey decides to count it as a win. His eyes dart from Mickey’s face to the table then back to his folded hands so rapidly, Mickey can’t get a good enough look at him to tell what he’s thinking. The corners of his lips have turned down into a small frown though, which makes him nervous.

“You sure you’re alright?”

“Um—yeah, Mick, I’m—I’m alright.”

“Look at them, Lip, already back in their own little world,” Debbie sighs. When Mickey turns to her, she’s leaning her chin on her folded hands and grinning at them with a dreamy sort of look on her face. “Isn’t that sweet?”

“How ‘bout you shut the—”

“Mickey fucking Milkovich! Is that really you, man? Shit, why didn’t you say hi?” Kev walks over and smacks Mickey so hard on the shoulder he falls forward against the table with an _oof_ and loses his grip on Ian’s knee. “When’d you get out, huh?”

“About two months ago now, I guess.”

“What? Two fucking months?” Kev shouts, holding out his massive arms. “Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell, man? Where you been drinking if not here? You go to jail for a few years and lose all sense of fucking loyalty?

_At home alone and shitty gay bars_. The truth is, as much as he’s missed this place sometimes, he’s been too worried about seeing Ian here to walk in. Until today, that is. “Nah, was just trying to lay low for a while. It’s good to see you.”

A wide grin splits Kev’s face and the bartender claps him on the shoulder again. “Fuck, I think that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Our friend Mickey here’s turnin’ over a new leaf, Kev. Ain’t that right, Mick?” Lip says, motioning his bottle across the table toward him. “I was a drunk asshole to him the other day, and this guy right here didn’t even punch me in the teeth.”

Mickey’s starting to regret the self-restraint. If he _had_ punched Lip in the teeth, he definitely wouldn’t be smirking at him right now like a smug asshole. “Whatever. Can I just get a fuckin’ drink?”

“’Course you can!” Kev exclaims. He turns, snatches a couple of untouched beers away from the table of hipsters behind him, and slams them down on the table. “Your drinks are on me the rest of the night, ‘kay? Consider it a welcome home gift, even if it did take your ass two months to get here.”

 

* * *

 

A few more beers and a couple of shots later, Mickey manages to mostly catch up to the Gallaghers. The room is spinning a little, and Mickey’s finding it harder to concentrate on whatever it is they’re talking about, but he feels more relaxed than he has in a long time. “Why—why do you guys keep on, like, helpin’ her and shit? Ain’t fuckin’ worth it, if you ask me. The fuck our parents ever done for us, huh?”

“Dunno, ask Ian.” Lip waves a dismissive hand at his brother. “I woulda just left her there. Wouldn’t’ve answered the fuckin’ phone in the first place.”

“That’s ‘cos _you’re_ an asshole,” Debbie says, nudging her elbow into Lip's ribs. “What has she even done to you ‘sides not being around anyways? One time, when I was living with her, we went out to get groceries. Didn’t have enough money though, so she tried to pimp me out to the perv at the register. Suggested I’d take him ‘round back and make him feel good,” she says, curling her fist and making a wanking motion. “Fifteen, pregnant, and she’s trying to whore me out to some pimple-faced douche. Still would've went and got her.”

Mickey swallows, trying to tamp down his urge to vomit at the story. He never thought anyone would be able to challenge Terry when it came to shitty parenting, but Monica is putting up a good fight. “Shit, you serious?”

“Oh yeah, she’s def—definitely serious,” Ian says, nodding his head. He’s turned almost completely sideways in the booth, leaning his head back against the wall with one of his arms sprawled across the table. “One time, when I was like uh—maybe sixteen? She took me out to this club in Boystown, tried to hook me up with this old dude who smelled like mothballs. And, like, he was _old,_ even by my standards. And that’s really fuckin’ old. Told me I could get some good money just for letting him suck me off. Probably right.”

Ian’s smiling, but Mickey can tell it’s not a pleasant memory for him. He wants to reach out and grab his hands. He wants to pull him away from the table and all of these shitty memories and remind him that everything’s okay now. That he’s okay now.

Lip’s booming laughter interrupts his thoughts before he can do any of that. “Shit, dude, really? She’s a real piece of work. Like you needed any more creepy old dudes trying to get on you. Fuck, we never really stood a chance. Screwed for fuckin’ life since birth. Poisoned genes.”

“Ugh. You really gonna go on _that_ rant again?” Debbie groans. “We don’t wanna hear it, Lip. It’s getting old.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Lip grumbles back. He draws a line down the table with the condensation gathering under their drinks. “It’s the Gallagher curse! We all fall on one side or the other. Ian and Debs are over here, on Monica’s side. Sweet and charming and crazy as all fuck,” he says, as he slides two shot glasses across the line to the right. Ian huffs, and Debbie squeaks in protest, but Lip ignores them both. “And me, Carl, and Fi are over here, fucking it all up on Frank’s side. Drowning our sorrows in alcohol, drugs, sex, and crime.” He slides three shot glasses to the left. “And then there’s Liam,” he adds, slamming an empty glass down in the middle, on top of the line. “Let’s hope the coke messed with his brain enough that he doesn’t end up like either of them.”

“Shit, you really gotta bring up the coke? That’s dark, Lip,” Ian complains, running a hand down his face.

Debbie shrugs. “Our lives are dark. Least Lip’s looking on the bright side.”

“Fi’d kill you for saying that.”

“Lucky Fi’s at home then.” Lip finishes off his drink and then looks around for another, clearly disappointed to find everything empty. “Shit, guys, we’re outta alcohol.”

“Pretty sure we’ve all had enough,” Ian sighs, as his eyes start to drift closed.

“Speak for your fuckin’ self.”

“Whatever, I ain’t carrying your ass home.”

Lip snorts. “Pretty sure I’m gonna be the one carrying you, bro.” Lip starts waving toward the bar, but both Kevin and the new girl seem to be intentionally ignoring him. To Mickey’s relief, Lip eventually gives up and sinks back down into his seat, pouting. Unfortunately, without a drink to distract him anymore, Lip shifts his attention to Mickey. “I fuckin’ ‘pologize to you yet?”

Mickey grimaces and considers taking off for the door to avoid this conversation. “Don’t gotta talk about it.”

“Lip,” Ian pleads, “Don’t—”

“What?” Lip laughs, holding up his hands. “I’m not doing anything! Just trying to say sorry to Mickey here for being a drunk asshole. I’m assuming I was an asshole. Usually am when I’m wasted. ‘Cept for right now. Right now I’m trying to be nice or whatever.”

“Rest a-fuckin’-ssured you were an asshole,” Mickey growls back. “But we don’t gotta talk ‘bout it. Consider it forgotten.”

“Alright, fine, forgotten. Forget what I said about the Gallagher curse too,” Lip adds to him. “Just me being an asshole some more. Ian’s better now. Nothin’ like good ol’ Monica. If any of us are capable of havin’ a healthy relationship, it’s probably him.”

Debbie nods enthusiastically in agreement. “I just _know_ you two can work it out. It’s so good to have you back, Mickey. I haven’t liked any of Ian’s other boyfriends. We scared a few of ‘em off, you know. If you can’t handle the Gallaghers then you can fuck right off. We’re part of the package. Always will be.”

Mickey feels a twinge in his chest at that. Logically, he knows Ian’s been with other guys. A horny teenage boy isn’t going to wait around for eight years for the jailbird boyfriend he broke up with. And, hell, Ian told him about one of them himself. But he still doesn’t like hearing it.

“Jesus, Debs,” Ian starts to groan, but she just keeps talking.

“I was always so jealous of you two, of how much you just  _liked_ being around each other. You know how hard that is?”

“Debbie, stop—”

She cuts Ian off again. “It was _romantic_. Everything kept going wrong for you guys, but you just kept—”

“Debbie, fucking stop. Now. Stop.” Ian’s voice raises, nearing a harsh shout, and she falls silent. A concerned frown replaces her grin. The three of them turn to Ian, who looks more alert now. His eyes are narrowed and his hands are clenched into fists on his lap. When he realizes they’re all staring at him, he sighs. “Sorry.” It’s a half-hearted apology at best, but Debbie nods to him.

Mickey recognizes the look on Ian’s face—the way his eyebrows are knotted and nose all scrunched up. Ian’s getting overwhelmed by the conversation and nearing the breaking point where he just starts indiscriminately blurting out all of the shit he’s been trying to keep inside. If Mickey’s being honest with himself, it’s starting overwhelm him too, hearing about how their relationship used to be, thinking about how abruptly it all went to shit. He knows Debbie means well, but he wants to get the hell out of this bar and away from anyone whose name isn’t Ian Gallagher.

“You wanna head outside? Grab a smoke?” Mickey tugs on Ian’s sleeve.

Ian looks at him like he was drowning and Mickey’s just thrown him a life vest. “Uh yeah, yeah a smoke sounds good.”

“Sure it does,” Lip chuckles, wiggling his eyebrows.

Mickey flips him off and pulls Ian outside, navigating through a sea of drunk assholes and hipsters as quickly as he possibly can.

 

* * *

 

They stop a little ways down from the bar, sinking until they’re sitting on the sidewalk with their backs against the brick wall. Mickey pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a long drag. He blows out the smoke and feels himself start to unwind. It’s always been easier when it’s just him and Ian. “Your family is somethin’ else, man.”

“Like you got any room to talk.” Ian plucks the cigarette from his fingers without asking. “You know, I— _hiccup_ —was hoping the cold air would, like, sober me up. Don’t think it’s workin’ though. Feels like I’m ‘a fall over, and I’m sitting down.”

Mickey tries to ignore the way his chest tightens with worry. He wants to ask if this is a regular thing, or if he just had a few drinks tonight because of Monica. He wants to ask how Ian’s doing on his meds, if he's feeling stable, if he’s had to change up the combination since they were together. He wants to ask if Ian’s finally tried going to therapy, if that’s helping at all or if it’s just all a load of bullshit like he thought it would be. He wants to ask a lot of things, but he’s not sure if it’s his place to care anymore. Even if it were, he’s afraid Ian would only resent him for prying.

Ian suddenly starts laughing. It starts as a low chuckle but soon graduates into a full on belly laugh that confuses the shit out of him. Mickey raises his eyebrows. “The fuck’s so funny?”

“You can just ask, y’know,” Ian says, once his laughter has died down. He rests his head back against the bricks and then tilts it to the side, so he’s looking at Mickey. “I’m less of a brat ‘bout people worrying now. ‘S only a couple drinks. Not a normal thing. I have one or two every now and then with dinner or whatever, but it makes me loopy and it’s not really worth it.”

“I’m that obvious, huh?" 

“You touch your lip a lot when you’re freaking out ‘bout something.” Ian taps his fingertip against Mickey’s bottom lip with a whispered _boop_ that makes Mickey snort. “And I just know. I know you.”

“Yeah, well, I know you too, Gallagher. And I know I ain’t the only one here freaking out. What’s got you all worked up?”

“Fucking Monica.”

“What’s it about her? Not like you lose your shit every time Frank shows his ugly face.”

“’S different. I’m just—I’m—” Ian’s voice trails off and he tilts his head again, so he’s looking up at the sky now. Mickey doesn’t say anything, just waits him out. “I’m just—I’m nervous I’m gonna end up like her someday. A fucking train wreck, you know? Always moving around. Showing up every now and then to make the people who still care about me feel like idiots. Not listening to anyone. Not giving a shit. Hurting people.”

“Ian—”

“She makes me feel bad for fucking _Frank_ , of all people. How’s that even possible? Frank fucking Gallagher, who hasn’t done shit for me but kick my ass and steal my shit since I was born. How bad you gotta be to be the worse parent when your only competition is Frank?” Ian pulls his knees up close to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. “It kills him when she shows up only to leave a few weeks later. He gets worse than usual. Gets angry and sad and blind drunk, wandering the streets yelling for her like a lunatic. She’s gonna kill him one of these days. She’s gonna come ‘round, and he’s—he’s gonna drink himself to death. And I just—I don’t wanna be that person, but I don’t know if I can—I’m not sure I can stop it from happening.”

It’s dark out, but Mickey can make out the tears starting to build in Ian’s eyes. He hates that Ian could think he’s anything like his fucking mother, hates that he can’t see how far he’s clearly come. “’Kay, so let me get this straight, if you’re Monica, am I supposed to be the fucking Frank in this little bullshit fantasy of yours? ‘Cos, I’m telling you right now, I ain’t on board for that.”

Ian laughs again, quiet and breathy. “I just don’t wanna hurt you, Mick. I don’t wanna hurt anyone. But that’s all she does.”

“You’re not—”

“I already hurt you, didn’t I?” Ian snaps, his voice cracking slightly. “I ran off on you twice. I ran off on my family. I took what we had and I—”

“Ay, come on, stop that,” Mickey interrupts, gripping Ian’s knee again in an attempt to calm him down. “We were dumbass kids. Fuckin’ teenagers. You runnin’ away back then ain’t the same as your mom runnin’ off on you now. You get that, right? Your parents never grew up. You did. We both did. It’s not the same thing.” Ian sniffs, but Mickey notices a small nod, so he presses on. “Your brother’s wrong. Don’t let him convince you that you ain’t got it good now. You’re all a lot better off than you seem to think you are.”

“He’s not wrong, though. I _am_ a lot like her. She’s always worrying she’s not attractive anymore, like if people don’t wanna fuck her, she’s got nothin’ else. And I—I feel like that sometimes, too.”

“Jesus, Ian—”

“And she’s always so fuckin’ restless. Even when she’s home, you can see she’s thinking about leavin’. I feel like that sometimes. Like I just wanna crawl out of my fuckin’ skin. It shouldn’t be so hard to just stay in one place, you know? ‘Cos I _want_ to. I think part of her wants to too, but she never does. Nothing’s ever enough for her. She leaves and she cheats and—fuck, I wouldn’t even exist if she wasn’t a cheater, would I?”

Mickey can sense where this is going, where Ian’s mind is heading. It’s like he’s standing in the middle of the tracks, just staring ahead, as a train hurtles toward him. “Ian, we don’t gotta talk about this—” He tries to get out of the way, but he’s not quick enough. 

“I cheated, too. I cheated on you.”

The train hits him. For a moment, he feels dizzy and disoriented, like the world has completely shifted beneath him. It’s hardly a surprise, though. After Ian casually announced he had done a porno, Mickey had started to wonder what else this new Ian might not see as a big deal. _Hypersexuality. Risky behavior. Impulsivity._ He remembers reading those words online after Fiona told him what she thought Ian had. Remembers looking a few of them up in the dictionary. Remembers deciding to ignore them, convincing himself that if he just held Ian tight enough they wouldn’t be a problem.

“How many times?” He regrets the question as soon as he asks it. Whether it was two times or twenty times, he doesn’t want to know. “Wait, don’t—”

“Five times.”

Mickey pauses, unsure of how to react to the number. It’s higher than he hoped but so much lower than he feared at the same time. “Sex?”

“No, only during the—uh, movie. That was the only time.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t even realize it was a bad thing, at the time, not really. In my head, it was just—just a hand job. With some stranger. In my head, it was nothing.”

“That’s bullshit, Ian,” Mickey sighs. “If you really thought it was nothing, you wouldn’t have hid it from me.”

Ian flinches and tries to pull his knees tighter to his chest, like he’s building a wall around himself. “Yeah, you’re uh—you’re probably right. I might’ve known on some level. But it just didn’t stay in my head long. I did it, and then it was gone. _Poof_. I didn’t think about it again." 

Mickey thinks about all of Ian’s little projects—the suitcases, the holes in the walls, spring cleaning, taking down that shitty, fag-hating church. The fire would burn so bright at first, only to quickly fade away and be replaced by another. Trying to keep up with him had been impossible. He can only imagine what it was like for Ian to be in his own head, to be grasping at thoughts that flowed through his hands like water. “They all strangers?”

“Yeah um—mostly, yeah.”

“Mostly?”

“Well, uh—one guy worked at Patsy’s, but it happened before I was working there. Blew me in the bathroom. Wasn’t very good.”

“Shit, someone at Patsy’s? Really?” Mickey groans. “Please tell me he doesn’t still work there. I don’t wanna have to kill someone.”

“You better not,” Ian chuckles softly. “Nah, left a while ago, I think.”

“Alright, then who else?”

Ian’s eyes go wide. “You want the fuckin’ details?”

“Might as well get it outta the way, right? Like ripping off a band-aid or whatever.” _The worst, most fucking painful bitch of a band-aid._

“I—I don’t want you to leave.” Ian grimaces and refuses to meet Mickey’s eyes. “If I tell you, you’re gonna leave me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Mickey sighs and pushes over, so that the length of his body is pressed up right against Ian’s. He gives Ian a light nudge, trying to be reassuring. “Just—just say it. For my fucking sanity. So I don’t gotta keep thinking ‘bout it."

Ian mutters something under his breath and then leans his head back up toward the sky again, so Mickey can’t see his face. “Fine,” he mumbles. “There was some random guy at the store. We both had kids with us. He was kind of gross, but I didn’t care. We turned the carriages around and jacked each other off in the parking lot.”

“Fuck, with the kids right there?” Mickey immediately starts regretting pushing for the details, which anyone else probably could’ve seen coming.

Ian doesn’t bother to react to the question, just continues babbling so fast that Mickey can hardly keep up. “Then there was the blowjob guy at the diner. And then I let some old guy at the club grind against me until he came in his pants for fifty dollars. I’m not sure if that counts, but it feels like it should. Then there was that stupid fucking movie. And then—the last time happened when I—when I left with Yev. I uh—I blew some guy. For money. I needed money.”

“Christ.” Mickey angles himself so he can better see Ian’s face. He’s surprised to find there are tears now streaming down his cheeks. “Ay, Ian, don’t start crying. It's not—I'm still here, aren't I? Just relax." 

“They told you I left Yev in the car, right? The cops? They must’ve told you that,” Ian blubbers out, stumbling over the words. “That’s—that’s where I was. That’s what I was doing. Needed to feed him, get him fuckin’ diapers, and I had no money and—God, I’m such a fuck up. I still can’t believe I fuckin’ did that. He—he could’ve—”

“He didn’t. He’s fine. You know he is.”

“Doesn’t make it okay, Mick,” Ian chokes out, covering his face with his hands. “None of what I did is okay. Why the fuck are you even still here?”

_Why the fuck are you even still here?_ Mickey’s thought about that question a lot since Ian’s surprise visit to the prison. No one would blame him or Ian for not wanting to try again, for agreeing to just stay the hell out of each other’s lives. Their relationship had its shining moments, sure, but they were few and far between in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes it feels like they were never given a moment to breathe and just be together without having to worry or fight or flee. It was a mess of a relationship even at its best, as brutal as it was beautiful.

Mickey fears he doesn’t have it in him to go through it all again, to have Ian back in his life only to lose him. But even though he knows it might kill him, he can’t bring himself to walk away. No one else has ever known him like Ian does. No one else has ever been able to break past the walls Mickey started building after his father hit him the first time, after he and Mandy came home to find their mother dead in her own vomit with a needle sticking out of her arm. No one else has ever even bothered to try.

He hates the idea of going through that process again, opening himself up and hoping it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass. It’s not that he’s too lazy or too scared to try with someone else. It’s that he doesn’t _want_ to try with anyone who isn’t Ian Gallagher—the only person he’s ever been in love with, the person who was enough to make him finally stand up to his father, the person who made him free. He doesn’t care if it hurts. He can take it.

“Ay, can you stop acting like you’re the only fuck up between us?” Mickey nudges him again. “Screwing up sure as hell ain’t exclusive to you.”

“But we were doing okay, and then I just—”

“You got sick." 

“That’s not an excuse. I can’t keep using it as one.”

Mickey shrugs. “It’s a reason, at least. Ain’t like you were out to hurt anyone on purpose, right?” There’s a moment of silence and then Ian lets out a sob that pierces right through Mickey. The sound makes it feel like someone has wrapped their hands around his heart and won’t stop squeezing. “Shit, I didn’t—don’t—” Almost eight years later, and Mickey is still total shit at comforting people, apparently. He clumsily runs his hand over Ian’s thigh and stops above his knee. “I slept with people too, you know. Happened after your took off with Monica. I was pissed at you. For leaving me.”

Ian goes rigid next to him. The crying fades into a few sniffles, but Ian doesn’t say anything right away. For a few long, excruciating minutes, Mickey just waits for a reaction, any reaction. “Who?” he asks so quietly, Mickey barely hears him.

“It happened twice,” Mickey admits. “The first was some random skank I picked up at the Alibi. Didn’t really, like, happen _happen._ Couldn’t get hard long enough.”

“Wait, you slept with a _girl_?” Ian lifts his head. His mouth is hanging open and his eyes are even wider than before. “Why? Do you stop being gay when I’m not around or something?” he teases, the tiniest of smiles now on his face.

“Fuck off. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Too drunk to think much at all. You were gone, and I just—I didn’t know how to fucking _exist_ without you,” Mickey tries to explain. “Suddenly thought maybe I could pretend to be a good, straight boy again, without your ass around, distracting me all the time.”

“Shit.” Ian looks stricken. “Mickey, I’m so fucking sorry. Me leaving, that wasn’t about you. That was about me being too weak to face my own shit.”

“You ain’t weak.”

“I was, though.”

“Yeah, well, so was I, sleeping with a fucking girl again. But I figured out my shit eventually, just like you did. The next one was a dude at least. Didn’t let him kiss me. Sucked me off behind some bushes, real romantic.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop it,” Mickey sighs. “Stop saying you’re sorry. I’m gettin’ real sick of that word." 

Ian nods and runs a sleeve over his watery eyes. “I’ve uh—I’ve been with other people, while you were—um, away. I know that’s not news or anything, with my siblings squawking away about my exes, but I just thought I should, you know, say it. Be honest about it. The one I told you about, Abe, he was the longest though. Nothing ever lasted more than a few months. Never uh—never loved anyone else.” Ian pauses and wipes at his eyes again. “I’m not gonna lie though, I tried. I wanted to love someone, for a while at least. I wanted so badly to just be fuckin’ normal. But no one ever felt right, not like you did.” Mickey knows that feeling, of trying to force something that just doesn’t fit right. Knows how hard it can be to accept. “I’m sorry.”

“The fuck did I say about apologizing?” Ian just rolls his eyes in response. “I know who you are, Ian. I’m not fucking surprised you wanted to be with someone, alright? You’re all feelings and no fucking sense sometimes.”

“Oh, fuck you—”

“But it doesn’t matter, alright? Not anymore. So stop beating yourself up.”

“It does matter though,” Ian argues, leaning closer to him so that their noses are almost touching. “We were a _family._ You, me, Yev, Svetlana. I used to—I used to have these stupid fantasies of us getting married and living in this perfect, white house and you would be holding Yev and I just—I threw it all away.”

“Jesus, Ian, you’re only in your _twenties._ ” Mickey lifts his hand to run the back of his knuckles softly along Ian’s cheek. He lets his hand rest against Ian’s neck, his thumb brushing across the skin under his ear. “There’s still time for all that shit. We weren’t ready then. We were _kids_. Jesus, we’re only in our _twenties_. I feel like an old fucking man sometimes.”

“Right?” Ian laughs, bitterly. “Shit, I talk to these college students sometimes, man, and some of ‘em don’t even know how to do their own fuckin’ laundry. Mom’s done it for ‘em their whole lives. Can you fuckin’ even imagine that? Some of ‘em haven’t even had real jobs yet. I’ve been putting money in the squirrel fund since I was like nine. How am I supposed to relate to people like that?”

Mickey nods, and his nose brushes against Ian’s. “Yeah. I get it, Ian.”

“I know you do, Mick.”

They’re so close now, Mickey can already feel Ian’s lips against his. There’s an uncomfortable, twisting feeling in his gut. And sometimes when he blinks, he sees brief glimpses of Ian with other men, being with men who aren’t him. But that feeling and those flashes have nothing on the beating of his heart, on the way it races whenever Ian’s near him.

“We can figure this out. You just gotta stop freaking out.”

Ian huffs, and Mickey shivers at the way Ian’s breath feels against his lips. “How’re you _not_ freaking out? Who the hell are you?”

“Because I _want_ this,” Mickey says firmly, hoping Ian can hear just how much he means it. “I’m scared too, Ian. But I want this, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Jesus,” Ian breathes, pressing his forehead to Mickey’s. “You’ve changed, Mick. In a—I mean, in a good way. It’s good. Really good.”

“You too, man,” Mickey murmurs back. “Shit, you seen your ass lately? I’ve wanted to grab that thing since—”

Ian grunts and pulls away. Mickey can’t resist following after him, instantly missing his warmth. He grabs Ian’s bicep and tries to tug him back. “My meds make it hard to lose weight,” Ian grouses. “My ass is fucking enormous.”

“If by enormous, you mean sexy as fuck, sure, sounds ‘bout right.”

Ian perks back up. “Really?”

“Yeah, really, you moron. Now get over here.” Mickey pulls at his arm, and this time Ian complies, pushing their foreheads together again. “You look good, Ian. Real fucking good.”

“You look real fucking good too, Mick,” Ian whispers against his lips. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Keep fucking up at work, because all I wanna do is track you down and make out with you so hard. Just wanna kiss your stupid face all over.”

Mickey’s stomach does a flip despite how ridiculous Ian sounds. He’s surprised by how much he doesn’t care that they’re in public right now, sitting right on the sidewalk where anyone walking by or coming out of the bar could see them. The only thing he can think about is how good Ian’s lips felt the other night. “Then stop talkin’ and fuckin’ do it.”

A devilish smirk spreads across Ian’s face at the command. He looks at Mickey like he wants to eat him alive, and Mickey’s cock apparently loves it, judging by the way it's already pushing against his jeans. Mickey raises his eyebrows, and Ian finally lunges forward, crashing their mouths together. His ex-boyfriend tastes like smoke and beer, and it brings him right back to when they were teenagers, sneaking kisses in dark alleyways.

When Ian runs his tongue along Mickey’s bottom lip, he moans and opens his mouth. Ian grabs both sides of Mickey’s face, pulling him closer and kissing him hard and fast. It feels like a promise of things to come, of things Mickey has ached for.

Mickey whines like a little bitch when Ian pulls away too soon. “What the hell, man?"

“I—I—shit, I’m gonna be sick.” Ian shoots up from the ground with the grace of a drunk hippopotamus. It looks like he’s trying to make it to the nearby alley but stops after only a few steps and spews all over the sidewalk. He bends forward with his hands on his knees and continues dry-heaving, even after Mickey’s sure there can’t be anything left in the poor fucker’s stomach.

When Ian starts muttering obscenities under his breath, Mickey can’t help the booming laughter that erupts from him. “This is really hurting my ego, man. No one’s ever vomited after making out with me before.” Ian lifts one of his arms and flips him off without turning around, which just makes Mickey laugh even harder.

As Ian continues retching, Mickey hears the door of the bar swing open and slam against the wall. Debbie and Lip come stumbling out, bickering loudly about who’s more shitfaced. Their arms are wrapped around each other, like they’re holding on for their lives. “Thought Kev cut you idiots off!” Mickey shouts over to them. They both grin when they see him, and something about it knocks the wind right out of him.

“Yo, Ian!” Lip yells out. “You alright?”

“Sure, fine, just fuckin’ dying over here,” Ian moans. “Goddamnit. Why’d ya let me have so much, asshole?”

Lip pats Ian on the back once he and Debbie manage to stagger over. “You’re an adult now, remember? Make your own dumb decisions. Enjoy your hangover, bro.”

“I fuckin’ hate you.”

“Okay, cranky,” Mickey chuckles, as he pulls Ian’s arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get you home, alright?”

They all walk back together, one of them occasionally almost teetering over on to the road, only to be rescued at the last moment. The vomiting seems to have sobered Ian up a bit and he manages to make it most of the way on his own, but he still keeps his arm wrapped around Mickey.

As they turn on to North Wallace, Debbie starts belting out one of the songs the diner plays on repeat. Lip snorts and Ian shakes his head, but after only a moment’s hesitation, Mickey starts singing with her. That only spurs her on, and they get louder and louder as they go. One of the neighbors will probably come running out to wave a gun at them soon, but Mickey doesn’t care. It feels good to be with other people, people he’s actually sort of comfortable with, people that seemingly don’t hate him like he thought they might. It feels good to be wrapped up in Ian Gallagher, even if he’s a sweaty, swaying mess that smells like puke and cigarettes. It feels good to just have fun, to not think about all the shit that’s wrong in his life for one second. It feels good.

 

* * *

 

After struggling to take off his clothes for a few minutes, Ian finally makes it down to just his boxers and collapses on to his old bed. When he falls over, he pulls Mickey down too. Mickey lands on top of him, with one of his hands trapped under Ian’s shoulder. “Oops,” Ian giggles. “Sorry. My bad.”

“Yeah, don’t even pretend like that was an accident, asshole. You ain’t subtle,” Mickey grumbles, trying to keep his voice down so he doesn’t wake up Liam and Chuckie in the neighboring beds. Not like they’d be able to hear him over their own deafening snores anyways. “How the fuck do you sleep through this?”

“The meds help,” Ian says, his voice muffled against Mickey’s chest.

And that’s the magic word. _Meds_. Probably the only word capable of successfully distracting Mickey from the way Ian’s bare skin feels under his palm right now. “Shit!” Mickey hisses. “Your meds. Shit, is it too late to take them? Where are they?”

“It’s okay,” Ian coos, running a soft hand down Mickey’s back. “Trust me. It’s okay.”

Mickey rips himself out Ian’s arms, because this sure as hell can’t be okay, and starts rummaging through the drawers by Ian’s bed for the familiar orange bottles. “Shit, shit, shit. I wasn’t even thinking.”

“Hey, hey, Mick, stop, please.” At some point in Mickey’s frantic search, Ian must have stood back up, because Mickey feels his arms wrap around his waist. “It’s too late. If I take them now, I’ll be a mess tomorrow. It’s okay, really. I’m usually careful, but it happens sometimes. It’s not the end of the world. I got my mornin’ ones with me. It’ll be okay.”

Mickey still doesn’t quite believe him, but he holds up his hands in surrender, feeling a little embarrassed about overreacting. No wonder Ian broke things off with him back then. Mickey must have driven him crazy, always fretting like this. “I’m sorry, man, I just—”

“You care,” Ian breathes against his neck, right before placing a soft kiss just under his ear that makes goosebumps break out across Mickey’s skin. “It’s okay. Just relax. You wanna stay over? It’s too late to walk all the way to your place.”

Mickey pulls away from him again. “What? We ain’t fucking with your little brother and that cunt’s weird kid right there, man.”

Ian shakes his head. “Who said anything about fucking? I didn’t mean it like that. You think I got my own nice apartment now just so I can fuck you _here_?” he asks, with a quiet chuckle. “Just—just stay, alright? I’ll stay on my side of the bed like a proper gentleman. If we tried to fuck, I’d probably end up puking on you anyways.”

Mickey shudders at the thought. “Way to kill the mood,” he grumbles, pushing Ian back down on the bed. Ian just smiles and scoots over toward the wall, so there’s room for Mickey to join him. Mickey bites his lip, stares at the open space, and then lets his eyes drift up to Ian. The urge to run his hands over his pale skin and the ridges of his stomach is almost overwhelming. “You—are you—are you sure you’re gonna be all right?”

Ian smiles gently and nods. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Just don’t—just—”

“I’ll be careful, Mick. I’m careful. It was just a weird night. Now get the fuck over here.”

Mickey doesn’t need to be told again. He kicks off his boots and then tugs off his jeans, so he’s wearing just his t-shirt and boxers. He’s careful to leave the shirt on though, not quite ready to remind Ian of the tattoo that’s still on his chest. “Alright, alright, you win.” He sits cautiously on the bed and then leans back, feeling more than a little awkward.

“Shit, this brings me back.”

It takes him back, too. The bed feels the same, sturdy and a little lumpy. The room still smells like weed and body spray. There’s some occasional shouting coming from outside, and sometimes a bang that’s probably, hopefully, maybe a car backfiring. He and Ian might have changed over the years, but so much around them has stayed the same.

They lay quietly for a while. Mickey doesn’t even consider trying to fall asleep, too hyperaware of every sound and movement Ian makes next to him. Mickey can tell Ian hasn’t fallen asleep either. His breathing’s too fast, and the arm closest to him keeps twitching.

“You okay?” Mickey finally asks.

“Do you—do you think you can forgive me?”

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I? Just go to sleep, Ian. I'm here." 

Not long after that, Ian’s breathing finally slows down into the quiet hum that Mickey remembers and has missed more than he ever realized. He’s glad that sound hasn’t changed either. After the confirmation Ian has fallen asleep, Mickey props himself up on his elbow and just looks at him, hoping that doesn’t make him the biggest creep on the planet. But, fuck, is he beautiful. Just as beautiful as he was as a kid, maybe even more so now. He cautiously runs his hand through Ian’s soft, red hair, reveling in the way it feels between his fingers. And, before he can think to stop himself, he leans down and presses a kiss to Ian’s forehead.

Sleeping hasn’t been easy for Mickey for as long as he can remember. When he was a kid, he always worried about Terry coming home drunk and looking for a fight. In prison, it’s when he felt the most vulnerable. He had convinced himself Terry would find some way to get to his odd, shifty-eyed cellmate and pay him to cut him in his sleep. Even out of prison, he fears Terry finding someone to break into the old house and finish the job he had started.

But in this old bed with Ian Gallagher snoring softly at his side, Mickey feels safe for the first time in years. He closes his eyes and relaxes into the mattress. He stretches out his limbs and then moves his hand across the sheets until it lands on Ian’s arm. He wraps his fingers around it in the softest grip he can manage and then feels himself fall, swiftly and peacefully, to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is up a little later than usual! Ended up having a really busy weekend.
> 
> Thank you for reading and for all of your awesome comments, I really appreciate it. :)


	9. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new number is _fifty-one_. Fifty-fucking-one.

The baby starts to wail at 6:30am exactly. The sound has become more of an alarm to Fiona Gallagher than the red-numbered clock sitting on her nightstand. After a few minutes go by without anyone else stepping up to calm her down, Fiona groans, stretches her arms out over her head, and grudgingly rolls out of bed. The cold floor under her bare feet makes her shiver. She grabs her robe from the back of the door and saunters down the hall toward Debbie’s bedroom.

Somehow Debbie is still asleep despite Sasha’s shrieks. There are clothes thrown haphazardly across the floor and it reeks of beer and smoke. Fiona scrunches up her nose, as she pulls Sasha into her arms. Maybe she should be upset about Debbie wandering home drunk at who knows what hour, but instead she just hopes her little sister had some actual fun for once. These days, Debbie spends nearly all of her time working and taking care of Sasha. It’s a fate Fiona was so sure Debs would avoid when she finally agreed to give up her baby. She was supposed to go to college, she was supposed to meet cute boys and fun girls there, and she was supposed to get out. She was supposed to do a lot of things, in Fiona’s mind at least, but the universe has a way of dragging the Gallaghers back to this house no matter how hard they fight to escape.

Fiona changes Sasha’s diaper downstairs, secures her in the highchair, and then hums a song she seems to like as she starts getting breakfast ready. She’s almost certain she heard Lip’s and Ian’s voices when Debbie got in last night, so she’s sure to make extra, just in case.

As the eggs sizzle on the griddle, Fiona turns and looks at Sasha. The baby is smiling and giggling while she bangs her tiny little fists playfully on the tray in front of her. Fiona pours out some cheerios for her and runs a hand over her soft, black hair. “Eat up, monkey,” she coos, kissing the top of her head.

She can’t believe it sometimes, that she’s still in the same house, raising yet another child who isn’t actually hers, another Gallagher abandoned by wayward parents. It’s not what she wanted, or at least what she thought she wanted. _Thirty-seven_ used to be the magic number. The age she’d be when Liam finally became an adult, and she would no longer have to be a pseudo-mother to her siblings. The age she’d be when she could do the things practically everyone else her age had already done—get married, get a house, pop out some kids.

That birthday is getting closer and closer, but it isn’t the magic number anymore. As much as she loves him, she’s not so naïve as to bank on Carl ever getting his act together. Or on his mysterious Bonnie suddenly deciding she wants to be a mother and making all of the sacrifices that choice entails. The pair of them are rolling stones. Only stopping for the occasional stint in prison. 

The new number is _fifty-one_. Fifty-fucking-one. She remembers how Jimmy used to sneer _thirty-seven_ at her like she’d be a decrepit old lady by then. She can only imagine how he’d react to this new number. He’d probably pity her. The thought makes her want to punch him in his stupid face, wherever the hell he is.

Fiona worked out the number as soon as she found the blue-eyed baby on her steps with the briefest of notes clipped to her worn, dirty onesie. She took her in anyways. It wasn’t the same as when she convinced Debbie to go through with the adoption. That baby was an idea, a looming, intangible threat of more diapers and more frantically running around to find a babysitter and more hemorrhaging money to keep the kid fed. This baby, on the other hand, was staring right up at her, looking so much like a fucking Gallagher she almost couldn’t stand it. The rest happened in a daze. Getting the old crib out of the basement, digging out the baby clothes from the attic, running the bath to scrub all of the dirt and grime from little Sasha’s skin. She knows it all happened, that it must have been her who did it, but hell if she can remember any of it.

She’s probably missed her chance now, to have a family of her own. The husband, the kids running around in the yard, maybe a dog. She’s surprised by how much the realization doesn’t bother her. What could she really be missing? She’s been raising kids her entire life, since Lip and Ian came into the world only a year apart. The kids might not have come from her, but she’d be lying if she claimed she doesn’t think of them as her own. They’re her blood, and they’re all still here and together because of her. That’s enough for her, even if some would pity her for it.

A creak at the top of the stairs snaps her out of her thoughts. “Debs?” she calls out, as she scoops fried eggs on to a plate. “You hungry?”

When she turns, it’s not Debbie standing in front of her. It’s Mickey Milkovich, somehow looking exactly the same to her as he did when he was nineteen and running around after a manic Ian. He’s fully dressed with his jacket tucked under his arm. There are shadows under his eyes, and he looks a little unsteady on his feet. He holds up a hand and gives her an awkward little wave.

“Shit, hey Mickey, what’re you doing here?”

Mickey shifts his weight between his feet and bites the corner of his lip. “I uh—I walked back with them last night, from the bar. Ran into them there. It was really late when we got back. Ian said it was cool if I stayed.”

“’Course it’s cool. You look like shit, so it must have been a fun night, huh?” she teases, as she pours two cups of coffee from the fresh pot. “Heard you all come in at fuck o’clock in the morning, singin’ some shitty song like a bunch of lunatics. And Debbie’s room smells like the Alibi bathrooms.”

She holds out one of the mugs to him. He reaches for it so quickly, his jacket falls to the ground, but he doesn’t bother to retrieve it. “Thank god,” he mumbles, before taking a large gulp. “My head is fucking pounding. Pretty sure I’m dying.”

She snorts and takes a sip from her own cup. “It’s called gettin’ old, bud.”

A hundred questions pop into her head while she watches Mickey drink the rest of the cup. All questions a nosy parent would probably ask. _So you and Ian are hanging out again then? What have you been doing? Where do you think this is going? What are your intentions toward him?_ But Ian’s an adult now, so she keeps her mouth shut. She still worries about him the most, more than even Carl sometimes, but she doesn’t quite see Mickey as the destabilizing agent of chaos Lip thinks he is. Part of her suspects having his old boyfriend back in his life might actually be a good thing for Ian.

“Everyone okay?”

Mickey’s eyes snap up to hers and then immediately back to the mug. “Sure, yeah.”

“Just a spur-of-the-moment night of drinking then?”

“Uh, yeah, somethin’ like that. It happens, right?” He flicks his thumb over his lip, making it pretty obvious he’s lying. Or at least holding something back.

“Not lately, but I’d say they were due a night out.” She takes the now empty mug from him and holds up the pot with her other hand. “You want a refill? Breakfast? Got eggs, bacon, I can make toast—”

“I gotta get going actually,” he interrupts, picking up and then slipping on his jacket. “Got an early shift at the diner.”

“Well, that blows. Going there hungover was the fucking worst. The fluorescent lights, the shitty people, the smell of grease that sinks into your damn bones.”

“Yeah, thanks for the pep talk. Real helpful,” he grumbles, patting his pockets, probably to check for his keys and phone. “Could you um—could you tell Ian I had to go? That I had work? He was still asleep, and I didn’t wanna wake him or whatever. And that I’ll call him later. Tell him that, too. I’m not freaking out, alright? He’s gonna think I am, but I’m not.”

“I’ll tell him,” Fiona promises, smiling. It’s amusing to see Mickey, once the dirtiest, meanest white boy in South Side, so flustered over her brother. “And I’ll make sure to note how calm and collected ya were, alright? The very opposite of freaked out. Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, alright, thanks—”

“You two back together or something?” The question slips out before she can stop it. She can’t help herself sometimes, not when it comes to her siblings. She might not really be their mother, but she’s the closest thing they got, so she feels entitled to a few nosy parent questions every now and then. What Ian doesn’t know won’t hurt him anyways.

Mickey’s posture changes instantly. He stands straighter, takes a wider stance, and puffs out his chest a little more. “Why? Got a problem if we are?”

“Hey, don’t go gettin’ all defensive with me. I was just asking,” she says, holding up her hands. “I was the one gettin’ your letters to him all these years, you know. Thought it was all kinda romantic. If I wanted you out of his life, you’d a known it. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Mickey’s face softens and his shoulders slouch forward again. “I uh—I dunno yet. Maybe. We’re working on it, I guess.”

“You wanna get back together?”

“Yeah.”

He answers firmly and without hesitation. For the first time during their conversation, he doesn’t sound nervous or cagey. It makes Fiona grin, makes her chest feel a little lighter. She wants so badly for Ian to finally find some happiness. If Mickey Milkovich is the key to that, then so be it. “Well, alright then,” she exclaims, leaning forward to clap him on the shoulder. “Was that so hard? You guys gonna try dating or whatever? He’ll never admit it, but Ian loves those chocolate truffle things in the colorful bags. They got ‘em at the pharmacy on—”

“Fucking hell, I’m _not_ buying him chocolate and flowers like he's some fucking girl, alright?” Fiona grins even wider. There’s the Mickey she knows. “Look, I really gotta get to work or Sean’s gonna have my ass. You wanna continue your little interrogation later, you know where I live. Just tell Ian I had to go.” He starts to march off but stops by the couch and spins abruptly back to face her. “And thanks for the coffee.” With that, he turns on his heel and disappears through the front door.

_Or Sean’s gonna have my ass._ The smile on her face fades into a frown against her will. Her stomach starts to churn, and she has to look away from all the food in front of her. She hates this, how she still reacts so strongly to _his_ name. They broke up nearly a year ago. She should be able to hear about him without falling apart by now.

She leans back against the counter and her eyes drift to the kitchen table. She remembers sitting across from him while she freaked out about how the hell they were going to fix the roof damage a recent storm had caused. She remembers apologizing for dragging him into this money pit with her. She remembers how he laughed and said he’d go anywhere she was. She remembers him pulling out a plain silver band, old and a little scuffed, and asking her to marry him.

She wanted to say yes. She was going to say yes. She could feel the word on the tip of her tongue. In her mind, she could picture herself saying it and throwing her arms around his neck, intent on never letting him go. But then Lip came storming in through the back door, announcing that Carl had just been arrested for possession and intent to sell. They spent the next few hours calling lawyers they found on the internet, only for a huge man with a gun sticking out of the top his jeans to show up and tell them _they_ had Carl covered. Whoever the hell _they_ were.

She asked Sean for some time to think that night, and he agreed, even though she could tell he didn’t want to. A few days later, her little brother’s abandoned infant daughter showed up on her doorstep. As she cleaned the little girl up, she knew what her answer would have to be. She knew she couldn’t drag someone else into this madness. And she knew she couldn’t leave the madness behind, knew she thrived on it for some fucked up reason. If she said yes, it wouldn’t be long before he realized the mistake he had made. The family had been relatively stable since Ian’s recovery, but she could feel it falling to shit again. It wouldn’t be fair to make someone share those responsibilities. She’s not sure if she would’ve wanted to share them anyways.

So she said no, and he left.

There hasn’t really been anyone since that day. Just random guys she allows into her bed but not into her life. It’s easier that way.

“Please tell me there’s coffee.” Lip stumbles down the stairs and moans happily when he sees the fresh pot. “Thank fucking god.”

She shakes her head and quickly blinks back the tears forming in her eyes. “You hungover too?”

“Oh, trust me, we’re _all_ gonna be hungover.” Lip looks around and notices the food. “Shit, Fi, you’re a saint, you know that?” Instead of grabbing a plate, he just plucks a fork from the drawer and starts shoving eggs and bacon into his mouth.

“So what happened?”

“What d’you mean?” Lip asks around a mouthful of bacon.

“I mean _what happened_? Mickey came down here looking like hell and started acting all weird when I asked him what was up.”

“You'd think a criminal with as long and storied a career as Mickey Milkovich would be better at lying by now.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“Fuckin’ Monica called Ian, alright?” he sighs, rubbing one of his temples. “Fuck, we got Advil? If you’re gonna freak out on me then—”

“Monica?” Fiona yells, making Lip wince. “What the hell is she doing back here? I thought she was in, like, Indiana or something?”

“Nope, back in Chicago. Not too far from here, actually.” He digs through the cabinets, as Fiona stands stock-still, trying to catch up with all the racing thoughts shooting around in her brain. _Don’t panic_ , she tries to tell herself. _Just don’t panic. Don’t let Monica have that kind of control over you._ “Some ex-boyfriend beat her up,” he adds, after washing down a few pills with coffee. “Left her in the middle of nowhere, too. She called Ian for a ride. We went and picked her up.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“’Cos Ian’s got a conscience or something, I don’t know, Fiona. We just did. For the love of god, just stop yelling,” Lip snaps, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “We drove out to where she was. She was all bloodied up, but she seemed fine enough, the same as usual. She wouldn’t let us bring her to a hospital or anything, so we dropped her off at her new girlfriend’s place. Then we got hammered. Then Ian puked in front of the Alibi and we came home.”

“Christ, you let Ian get that drunk?”

Lip waves her off. “Don’t give me that. Ian’s gonna be twenty-six pretty soon. A little old for me to be holding his hand, don’t you think? He’s fine.”

Fiona raises her eyebrows at him. “Since when are you not all up in Ian’s shit? Something happen with you two?”

“We figured our shit out. I’m gonna back off, and you should too.”

“He can’t just—”

“He’s _fine_ ,” Lip insists again. “A couple of beers isn’t gonna ruin all the progress he’s made. We’ve got bigger problems.”

“Whatever, fine,” Fiona mutters, throwing up her arms. “But don’t you two go making this a regular thing, alright? I’m not worried about just him. You have your own shit, Lip, and in case you haven’t noticed, alcoholism runs in this family.”

“Wait, no shit? An impoverished Irish Catholic family with too many kids and a drunken patriarch like ours? Never would’ve guessed,” Lip mocks.

Fiona flips him off and turns her back to him to start making more food for when the others finally make an appearance. There’s a few minutes of silence, while she cooks and Lip mainlines coffee and makes funny faces at Sasha. Eventually, when Sasha seems to grow bored of him, he shifts his attention back to her. “So Mickey left early, huh?”

Fiona looks up from the stovetop to glare at him. “Don’t go trying to start shit. He had to get to work at the diner, told me to let Ian know when he woke up. Said they were trying to get back together. Was kinda sweet about it.”

“Sweet, yeah, _sure_. Sounds just like Mickey.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

Lip shrugs and ruffles Sasha’s hair. “Fine. Monica’s the real problem anyways. Don’t care what Ian says, she scares the shit out of him. He acts like she’s the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come showing up to haunt him every time she makes an appearance.”

“Maybe it’s good timin’ then, that Mickey’s back,” she reasons. “Maybe he can help.”

Lips rolls his eyes at her dramatically, and she barely resists the impulse to smack him upside the head. “Don’t know about that, sis. If Monica is his Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, then Mickey is Christmas Past,” Lip muses. Fiona has no idea what he’s talking about or what Christmas has to do with any of this, but she’s pretty sure it doesn’t mean anything good. “You know, I had no idea they were even still talking. They’ve been in touch for like  _seven_ fucking years, and I had no clue. Either I’m a total moron, or Ian’s a better liar than I give him credit for.”

Fiona can’t help but feel ashamed at that. She was the one helping Ian lie all those years, after all. Lip can be an arrogant know-it-all sometimes, but he cares. She knows how much he worries about Ian and the rest of them, how much knowing Ian didn’t trust him must hurt him. “Ian had Mickey send letters from the prison here. I’d let him know when one came in, and he’d come and get it. He asked me not to tell you, so I didn’t.”

Lip turns slowly back to her with wide eyes. “That better be a bad joke.”

“He didn’t want you to freak out."

“Jesus, why the fuck do we all gotta keep lying to each other all the time? We’re supposed to be a fucking family,” Lip shouts. “ _We_ are the ones who have kept this family together, Fiona, and now you’re keeping shit from me too? Fuck it. I’m out. Let me know if Monica shows up.”

He moves to walk away, but Fiona springs forward and grasps his forearm. “Hey, cut that shit out. I was just trying to help him, alright? He was a mess, just out of the hospital, and I was worried about him. I would’ve agreed to practically anything he wanted at that point, if I thought it'd make him happy. It wasn’t about you.” Lip continues to glower at her, but she notices the tiniest of nods. “Be mad at me all you want, but can you worry about one of your other siblings for a bit? I think Ian’s had his fill for now.”

Lip cocks an eyebrow. “Which one you got in mind? Carl alright?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. Some thug showed up at the door the other day and handed me an envelope with a thousand dollars in it, telling me it was for the fucking squirrel fund. Wonder who that could be from,” she sighs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Nah, I’m talking about Debs.”

“What about her? Seems fine to me.”

“She seems _fine_ to you? Really?” Fiona barks out. “She was a straight-A student in high school too, you know. She used to talk about being a nurse or a teacher, and now she’s stuck here, working at that fucking diner—”

“It’s not a bad job, Fi.”

“It’s not a _good_ job either. For her, I mean. For me, sure, why not, but not Debs.” Fiona runs a hand through her hair, internally wincing at how knotted and greasy it feels. “She’s _smart_ , Lip. She should go to college. Or at least take classes, or something. I’d help, but I don’t got any idea where to start with that shit, and she’d hate me for even bringing it up.”

Lip downs the rest of his coffee and then tosses his mug into the sink. “So you haven’t mentioned any of this to her?”

Fiona bites the inside of her lip. “No,” she admits, feeling like a coward. The brief conversations she has with Debbie these days usually don’t go much further than how work is going, if she can watch Sasha, or what her plans are for the day. They’re civil, but they’re not the sisters they used to be, not since the baby was taken away. A wall went up between them that day, and Fiona is still too scared to try to knock it down and face the mountains of resentment likely hiding behind it.

Lip nods again and starts walking toward the door. Fiona follows after him, determined not to let him out of this discussion without some sort of resolution, and watches as he pulls on his coat. “Yeah, okay. I’ll look into it and try to talk to her,” he finally agrees, to Fiona’s relief. “But you two gotta work out your shit eventually. There’s been a cold war going on with you two since the adoption mess, and it ain’t fun to be around. You guys don’t seem to think the rest of us notice, but we do, and we’re sick of it.”

“That was _years_ ago,” she argues. “Me and Debs are fine.”

“Like fuck you two are fine,” Lip scoffs, shaking his head. “Whatever. I’ll do my part, you do yours. Just figure it out, alright?”

_Easier said than done_ , she thinks, as the door closes behind her brother. Lip doesn’t understand what she’s feeling, could never understand. The way he sees himself, his identity, has never been as woven into this house and the people inside of it as hers has. If she fails within these peeling walls, if she fails her kids, she’s not sure she has anything else to offer.

 

* * *

 

The clanging of a pan against the stove startles her awake. She shoots up from the couch, not sure where she is or what time it is. As she blinks open her heavy eyes, she recalls sitting on the couch with Sasha on her lap to watch some television. Since the television is still black, it appears she didn’t even get as far as turning it on before falling asleep.

Fiona hears the baby giggle and glances over to see Ian moving around the kitchen. He’s wearing his old ratty green tank top that she was sure she had thrown out and a pair of sweatpants littered with holes and bleach stains. It’s not his best look, but for someone who was apparently smashed the night before, he looks to be doing pretty well. There’s a bright smile on his face when he turns to Sasha and whispers something that makes her giggle again.

She looks down at her phone and groans when she sees it’s already noon. It might be her day off, but she’s got a long, imposing checklist of shit that needs to get done today waiting for her on the fridge. “What’re you making?”

“Oh, shit, Fi. Sorry, did I wake you up? I was trying to be quiet.”

“You should’ve woken me up earlier, asshole.” She takes a seat at the kitchen table and yawns, rubbing her eyes. “Nappin’ during the middle of the day, can’t remember the last time I did that. Like some bored, North Side housewife over here.”

“Feels great, right? Naps are like crack to me,” he laughs, as he slides a grilled cheese from the pan on to a plate. “You hungry?”

“You offering?”

“Yeah, here, take it, I already had one.” He hands her the sandwich and then takes the seat across from her. “You alright?”

“Should be asking you that, shouldn’t I?”

Ian frowns and his shoulders tense up around his neck, like they always do when the attention suddenly turns to him. Jimmy had called Ian a classic middle child once, desperately needing attention and avoiding it like the plague at the same time. Fiona thought it was all just a bunch of stuck-up psychobabble he read in medical school, but the asshole might’ve had a point.

“And why’s that exactly?” Ian walks away from the table before she can answer to pour himself a large mug of coffee. When he turns back to her, his hands are circling the mug so tightly, his knuckles have paled.

“’Cos Monica’s back maybe,” Fiona says, trying to delicately walk the line between straightforward and gentle, hoping she doesn’t spook him. Ian’s better at not bolting the moment a conversation turns serious now, but he’s still pretty good at finding excuses to leave when he feels like something isn’t going his way. “Lip told me.”

“Of course he did,” Ian mutters. 

“He was just warning me about her. Wasn’t about you.”

“ _Right_ ,” Ian drawls. “I doubt she’ll be coming around any time soon, if that’s what you’re worried about. Called me as a last resort, that’s all. She’ll get sick of this new girlfriend eventually and take off to, like, fucking Arkansas. It’s not a big deal.”

“You feelin’ okay about seeing her?”

Ian’s jaw clenches, and Fiona fears she’s pushed him too far too quickly. But he doesn’t snap at her or make up some lie about why he’s got to take off. He just sighs and looks up at the ceiling, still clutching to the coffee mug. “I don’t know,” he finally says, voice quiet. “I don’t know how I’m feeling. It’s like—it’s like as soon as things might be looking up for me, she’s gotta show up and remind me of how easily it can all go to shit.”

“What, you worried about messing things up with us? With Mickey?” As soon as she says his name— _Mickey_ —she remembers their earlier conversation in the kitchen and realizes she’s fucked up. “Oh, shit, shit, Mickey. He asked me to let you know he had to get to work early and didn’t wanna wake you. He ain’t ditching you or—”

“I know,” Ian interjects, with a small, almost wistful smile. “He texted me. Well, I texted him first, all panicked and shit, and he texted me to chill the fuck out. Scared me a little when I woke up, but, you know.” It sounds like he wants to say more, but he stops there, looking down at his socks.

“Pretty sure that boy loves you, Ian. He ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Ian releases a long sigh and takes a seat at the table again, propping his feet up on one of the empty chairs. “I’m not worried about _him_. I’m afraid _I’m_ gonna fuck it up again. That I’m not gonna be able to stop myself. It’s just—it’s just what I do, you know?”

As he runs his hand through his wet, messy hair, Fiona notices just how exhausted and pale he looks. At that moment, he seems so much younger than he really is, so much more fragile than she knows him to be. Before she can talk herself out of it, she stands up and leans forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “You gotta stop thinkin’ that way, kiddo,” she whispers, rubbing a small circle into his back. “You’re stronger than that.”

After an initial hesitation, Ian lifts his arms and returns the hug. “I hope so,” he mumbles. “I just don’t know.”

Fiona pulls back from him, so she’s looking him in the eyes again, and grasps his shoulders. “You know this is why none of us ever get anywhere, right? ‘Cos we keep thinkin’ we’re gonna fuck it up before we even try it. You can’t be afraid of fixing things, Ian. Of putting yourself out there. If it’s what you want, you gotta try.”

Ian raises his eyebrows. “You don’t think you should take your own advice there?”

Fiona straightens up, placing her hands on her hips. “What’s that mean?" 

Ian opens his mouth but quickly closes it again. “Nothing, forget I said anything,” he says. “It’s too early, and I’m too hungover for all of this.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone to look at the time. “Shit, I gotta go. You need anything before I leave?”

She’s still reeling from what Ian might’ve meant—Is he getting on her about Debs like Lip? Could he have been thinking about Sean?—but she just shakes her head no. “Go do what you have to do. Family dinner next weekend maybe? How about Saturday?”

“Yeah, sure, I can do that. Just text me,” Ian says, as he starts bustling around the downstairs, collecting his shoes and jacket. “And let me know if Monica shows up, alright? Lip and I will come down to help.”

“Of course.” Ian’s at the front door when Fiona calls out to him again. “Hey, are Debs and the boys still sleeping?”

Ian pops his head back into the living room. “Well, I haven’t seen Liam or Chuckie since I got up, so I’m guessing those two are still as dead to the world as when I left the room. Debs had a lunch shift at the diner today. She left like an hour ago.”

Fiona’s stomach clenches. She had been hoping to talk with her little sister. It’s hard to stop thinking about what Lip said to her, about what Ian might or might not have implied—that she and Deb aren't as fine as the two of them like to pretend they are. There are still some nights she has dreams of Monica showing up at their door and taking Debbie away with her again, but this time Debbie never comes back. “She seem okay to you?”

“Hungover, I guess, but fine. Why?”

“Thinking about Monica ain’t easy for her either, you know.”

Ian nods and lets his hand drop from the doorknob. He strides across the room and wraps his arms around Fiona in another embrace, tighter this time. “It’s not easy for any of us, but I really don’t think she’s gonna be showing up here, okay? And if she does, you call me right away.”

She feels safe wrapped in Ian’s arms. She pulls him closer and buries her face into his shoulder, suddenly realizing how lonely she’s felt lately. Everyone’s growing up, finding themselves and their own lives. Liam has even started talking about colleges, and Chuckie will be moving away as soon as his heinous mother gets out of prison in a few months. They’ll keep moving on, and she’ll still be here, living as the single mom who’s not really a mom she’s always been.

“You want me to stay a while longer?”

Fiona shakes her head against him. “No, no, get out of here,” she says, pushing him gently away. “Sasha and I are gonna go for a walk today, I think. As soon as I wake your lazy ass brother up from his beauty sleep.”

She tries to smile, but Ian is looking at her anxiously, like some part of her has fallen out of place. “Seriously, you need anything, just call me.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright, get outta here." When finally Ian leaves, the house is impossibly quiet for a moment. No one’s laughing or crying or screaming at the television. No one’s running around upstairs or getting into a fight out on the porch. The only sound she can really hear is Sasha peacefully eating her Cheerios, and the silence is deafening.

 

* * *

 

It’s been months since she’s been anywhere near the diner. She avoids it and the streets surrounding it on purpose, too worried about accidentally running into Sean to risk it. The one time she braved it was when Debbie called her from a payphone begging her to bring by her cell, promising her ex wouldn’t be around.

It looks the same as it did when she worked there. The glass is smudged, and there’s a couple of kids in front of it, passing a cigarette back and forth. She finds herself smiling up at the old sign. She likes her new job selling furniture. She’s good at it, and she makes a hell of a lot more money than she ever did at this place, but she’s feeling a little nostalgic for her years here all the same.

She’s not sure what she’s doing. Lip’s comment is still nagging at her, but it’s not like Debbie’s going to want to have a heart-to-heart while she’s in the middle of a shift. Fiona just needs to see her. Needs to take note of how Deb reacts to her, catalog her expressions and body language, and try to confirm whether or not her little sister’s still angry.

Her heart starts hammering in her chest as she moves closer to the door. She tries to convince herself everything will be fine, that if Debbie’s here running things, Sean’s most likely at home. “You ready, monkey?” she whispers to Sasha, as she pushes inside. A few eyes turn to her from behind the counter when the bell jingles, but she doesn’t recognize any of them.

“Can I get you a table, hon?” the woman closest to her asks.

“No, um—thanks, but I’m actually just looking for my sister. Debbie, she works here.”

“Debbie ain’t here. Running an errand for the boss.”

“Oh, well, I’ll just—”

“Fiona? Hey, everything alright?” Fiona freezes like a deer staring down headlights. She can’t see him, but she’d know that voice anywhere. A few seconds later, he appears from somewhere behind her, an awkward smile on his face. “Debbie just had to run to the bank for a second. She know you were dropping by?”

“Oh, uh—no, I was just nearby and wanted to ask her about something,” she answers quickly, too quickly judging by the way her words start to bleed together. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll just wait ‘til she gets home. Or text her, like a normal person.”

Fiona tries to head back toward the door, but Sean lightly grabs her arm. “You can wait for her at the counter, if you want. I’ll get ya some coffee, on the house. She should only be another couple minutes or so.”

The skin on her arm tingles when Sean drops his hand. It feels like her body is being pulled to him, like she’s barely restraining herself from running into his arms. It’s been so long, but it’s like nothing has changed. There are still the same lines around his eyes and the same kind, patient smile on his face. She thought running into him would be like running into Gus, that Sean would curse her out and warn her to stay the fuck away from him. But Sean doesn’t look angry. If she hadn’t known better, she’d almost think he was nervous.

“No, it’s okay, really. I just wanted to say hi.”

The smile on Sean’s face falters, and Fiona feels like an asshole, which is nothing new. Sometimes she fears she’s a hurricane just like her mother—roaring into the lives of unsuspecting men and leaving nothing but destruction in her wake. She tries so hard to stay, to be good, but she never manages it. Not even with this man, who knew every horrible thing about her and still thought she was beautiful. Not even with this man, who understood how hard being good can be sometimes, no matter how badly you might want to be.

_I miss you._ The words sit on her lips, but she knows she won’t be able to say them. Fighting for what she wants used to come naturally to her, but she’s grown so tired of losing. She doesn’t think she could bear it if he were to scoff at her, to tell her she fucked up too badly this time and to stay away from him. “It’s good to see you,” she says instead, hoping the shakiness in her voice doesn’t give her away. “You look good.”

“Yeah,” Sean says, clearing his throat. “You look good, too. But you always look good.”

Fiona’s cheeks burn. She tilts her head forward slightly, hoping her hair will cover up at least some of her blushing. Feeling shy and awkward around a man is new to her. She doesn’t know how other people are able to deal with this, how they don’t just give up and curl up into a fucking ball from the embarrassment. “I never got to thank you, for giving Debs the Assistant Manager job. How she doing?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s doing great. A lot fucking smarter than me, that’s for sure,” he laughs. “I’m lettin’ her do the books. Told me it looked like a blind guy had been doing ‘em.”

“Good. That’s good. She was always good at math,” she responds, not sure what else to say. She tries to think of a way to politely excuse herself, but she shoots down every option, finding she doesn’t want to walk away from him just yet. “Is Mickey still here?” she asks, just to fill the silence.

“Nope, just went home for the day. Debs convinced him to take off a little early. Those two are like peas in a pod now. He and your brother back together or something?”

“Not yet, but they’re trying.”

“Well, that’s good, right? He seems better than the kid I remember, at least. Hell, he seems better than he did when he first walked in here. Gets in early, leaves late every day. Works hard, doesn’t bitch. I like him.”

“Yeah, it’s good. Mickey, he’s—he’s had a rough go of things, but he’s okay. He seems to make Ian happy, and that’s really all I give a shit about.”

A smile spreads across Sean’s face again. The sight of it makes her stomach do an obnoxious flip that makes her feel unsteady on her feet. “You sure you don’t want something before you leave? Bet you’ve been missin’ our gourmet cuisine.”

Fiona snorts. She’s about to turn him down again when an idea suddenly comes to her. Maybe she won't be able to fix her own shit today, but she thinks she can help with someone else's. “You know what, actually, can I get two of those cheeseburger platters to go? You still got those? With all the onion rings and shit on the side?”

“Of course we do, and of course you can,” he says. He lifts his arm, like he’s about to touch her, but drops it back to his side and looks toward the counter. “Hey, Amber, can you get two cheeseburger platters to go? Throw in some of those weird apple pie things Al has been making. And she gets the friends and family discount.”

“Wait, we get a friends and family discount?” the woman, who must be Amber, asks, tilting her head to the side.

“ _I_ , the boss, get a friends and family discount. It’s called free.”

“Oh, Sean, no—”

“Relax, it’s on me,” he says, before she can continue protesting. “I gotta go out back and take care of some things, but it—it was good to see you, Fiona. You should come by more often.”

Fiona feels her mouth fall open a little and suspects she’s probably gaping at him. She’s usually better at playing it cool, but he’s not acting the way she expected him to at all, and it’s throwing her the fuck off. “Thank you. I uh—yeah, I’ll try.”

 

* * *

 

Grease is starting to seep through the bag she’s got cradled in her arm like a second baby. Sasha is balanced on the other hip, babbling nonsensically to herself, as they make their way to a house she’s pretty sure she hasn’t been inside since Ian’s first depressive episode all those years ago. The rest of the neighborhood might be gentrifying slowly, but this street looks utterly the same. Bottles line the crumbling sidewalks, and some of the yards are so covered with trash she can barely make out the dead grass beneath. It seems not even the hipsters or power lesbians will brave the territory once dominated by Terry Milkovich and his ruthless, dirty mob of children.

She manages to awkwardly knock on the door while still holding the food and the baby. There’s music playing inside, the kind where guys just scream over loud, irritating noises. Lip was into that shit for a while, until Fiona threatened to kick him out if he subjected her to it even one more time.

A young man she doesn’t recognize answers the door. She assumes he’s one of the Milkovich brothers, but she can’t place him. The only one other than Mickey she can really recall anything about is the creep who used to hit on her in high school.

“Why, if it isn’t Fiona Gallagher.” The mystery Milkovich says her name slowly, like he’s trying savor it. She glares at him, fully prepared to drop her food and throw a punch if things start to get weird. “What brings you around these parts?”

“Is Mickey home?”

The guy’s face drops, like he actually thought Fiona might be here for him. “He's into dudes, you know. Don’t appreciate real beauties like you. I could show you a—”

“Hey, Mickey!” Fiona screams out, over what she can only assume is the beginning of a promise she’s better off not hearing. “You home?”

The guy grunts and finally steps out of the way, waving her inside. “Yeah, yeah, he’s fucking home. Not gonna be able to hear you over his shit music though.” He stomps angrily away from her, as she closes the door. He barges into one of the bedrooms, and a moment later, the music mercifully stops playing and Mickey peeks his head out. “Fiona?”

“Yeah, hey—”

Mickey practically sprints out of his room and stops close to her, looking borderline frantic. He’s covered in sweat and only wearing a pair of baggy basketball shorts. “Somethin’ wrong? Is Ian okay?”

Before she can answer, the brother emerges from the room as well and scoffs. “Always something with that drama queen,” he grumbles to himself. “Always something.”

“Ay, Iggy, shut the fuck up,” Mickey snaps at him. “Don’t you got somewhere to be anyways? Get the fuck outta here.”

Iggy flips Mickey off but starts gathering his things. “Whatever. I’m going to work,” he says, as he grabs a set of keys and a gun from the coffee table. “Good to see you, Fiona Gallagher,” he adds with an exaggerated wink.

“How charming,” Fiona intones, when he’s gone. “Where the hell does he work?”

“The gun didn’t tip you off? On the corner, selling drugs. Really going places, that one. Got upgraded to prescription drugs recently, thinks it’s some kind of promotion,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. “So what’s going on?”

“I just—” Fiona starts to explain, but her voice trails off when she notices two familiar words scrawled messily across Mickey’s chest. “Holy shit. You spelled Gallagher wrong, you know.”

Mickey’s glances down and groans. “Goddamnit it. Yeah, I fuckin’ know I did." A blush starts to creep up from his neck to his cheeks. It makes her feel a little better about turning into a tomato in front of Sean earlier. Apparently, even Mickey Milkovich blushes sometimes. “Give me a second.”

He disappears into his room again and comes back out wearing a white t-shirt with holes in the collar and yellow pit-stains. “So?”

“When’d you get it?”

“Shit, we really gotta talk about this?”

“I honestly can’t stop seeing it,” she says, trying hard not to laugh, as it seems to be a sore spot for him. “Ian know you got that thing?”

“Yeah, he fuckin’ knows,” Mickey sneers. “Did it to myself in prison, thought it would be—you know, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Not my finest moment, alright? You just come here to bust my balls?”

“No need to get all grumpy about it,” Fiona teases. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Yeah, well, I think it’s shit,” he retorts. “And you’d think it was shit too if some guy you were banging spelled your name wrong on his ass or something.”

Fiona starts laughing in earnest, unable to hold back any longer when she accidentally begins imagining _Fiona Galager_ scratched across Jimmy’s bubble butt. “I’d um, well, I’d appreciate the sentiment.”

“You’d appreciate the sentiment,” Mickey repeats slowly, clearly not believing a word she's saying. “Yeah, right, okay.”

“Hey, don’t worry, Ian’s way less shallow than me. What with all the AARP cardholders he’s fucked.” That prompts Mickey to bark out a laugh, which makes her feel a little less shitty about barging into his house only to make fun of him. “Plus, there are people who specialize in fixing tattoos, you know. I was with a guy for a while who did that. I think I still got his number somewhere if—”

“Don’t got the money for that,” he says, cutting her off. “Just gonna have to deal with it.”

“Well, you will someday, if that’s what you want,” she assures him. “And, for now, I still think it’s sweet. Just for the record.”

Mickey gives her the middle finger, which only serves to make her start laughing again. Mickey scowls and folds his arms in front of his chest. “The fuck you want anyways?”

“Brought you an early dinner.” Fiona awkwardly flings the greasy bag at him, snorting when his arms flail out and he just barely manage to catch it. “Went by to see Debs, but she wasn’t there. Didn’t want the trip to be a total waste. Thought you might be hungry." 

Mickey narrows his eyes suspiciously and snaps, “I got money. Can buy my own fuckin’ food. This ain’t a soup kitchen.”

Fiona can only smile at that, because it sounds exactly like something she or any of her siblings would say. It’s a funny thing, how people with nothing can be so quick to turn down help. What the people trying to help almost never realize is that when you got nothing, sometimes the only thing you can really hold on to is your pride.

“It’s just a peace offering. When have us Gallaghers ever been charitable? Debs spent her entire middle school career pocketing UNICEF donations. And I’m pretty sure Carl used to take money from the collection boxes at the church.” Sasha begins to squirm in her arms, and Fiona looks down at the rug. It’s about as clean as theirs is at home, surprisingly, so she figures the kid should probably be fine. “If I put her down for a bit, is there any, like, guns or shit she’s gonna be able to find? She’s gettin’ real good at crawling. Even took a few steps on her own the other day.”

“Uh, just hold on a sec.” Mickey runs over to another bedroom, which she assumes belongs to Iggy, and slams the door shut. “There, should be fine now.”

Fiona nods and sets the baby down. Sasha immediately lets out a delighted squeal and starts moving toward the living room. When Fiona looks up, she notices a smile on Mickey’s face, as his eyes follow Sasha around the room. She wonders if this is a part of the Mickey only Ian knows, the one who apparently smiles at children. “You got clean plates?”

“I got paper towels. That good enough for you, princess?”

“Doesn’t sound like I got much of a choice.” She sits down on one side of a musty, lumpy couch and watches as Sasha plays with a DVD box she has grabbed from the shelf under the television.

Mickey reappears a few minutes later, unceremoniously throwing down the bag of food, a roll of paper towels, and two beers. “You Gallagher girls are trying to make me fat,” he says, as he sits on the opposite side of the couch, as far away from her as possible. “Debbie won’t stop feeding me either. Keeps sending me home with stuff. Even tried to make me eat a salad the other day. Thought just ‘cos she sprinkled some bacon on it, I wouldn’t notice.”

There’s a note of fondness in Mickey’s voice when he talks about Debbie. It makes her remember how upset Debbie had been when they told her Mickey got arrested. Maybe the two of them had been something like friends when everything fell apart, and she just never noticed. There are probably a lot of things she never noticed back then, too caught up in her own shit. “Well, you could use it,” Fiona says, leaning over to poke him in the ribs. “You’re all bones.”

She catches Mickey roll his eyes again, but he doesn’t say anything. They spend the next few minutes just eating quietly, while Sasha continues to make a total mess of the Milkovich family’s impressive bootleg DVD collection. It’s Mickey who finally breaks the silence. “You really just come by, or there something you wanna say?”

Fiona finishes off the last of her cheeseburger and wipes her hands on a paper towel. She rests them in her lap and glances to the side to meet his eyes. “I don’t really know, honestly. I’ve just felt weird, since seeing you.”

“Weird?”

“Guilty, I think? Like maybe we should’ve visited you or tried to help or something?” she attempts to explain. “Also, I read a few of your letters. I was too curious, couldn’t stop myself. Made Carl help me seal them back up after so Ian wouldn’t notice. Sorry about that.”

Mickey chuckles under his breath. “Not like there was anything exciting in them.”

“Guess not, but they really helped Ian. You got no idea,” she says, thinking about the nervous smile that would always be on Ian’s face when he came to pick up a new letter. “He’d get so happy when I called to tell him one had come in. And I was getting real used to him being miserable all the time back then. It was such a relief, seeing him happy.”

Mickey’s eyes grow wider, but he doesn’t comment, just starts cleaning off the table. “Don’t keep feeling guilty or whatever,” he says, after tossing everything into the trash can and plopping back down on the sofa. “Don’t think I would’ve been too open to visitors who weren’t Ian. And I get it, it’s not like I’m family. I’m not mad.”

That only makes her feel worse. She’s not surprised he feels that way though. They might not have understood his and Ian’s relationship, but Mickey _was_ family for a while. Until Ian walked away. When Ian walked away, they all walked away. They hated each other sometimes, but the Gallaghers knew how to circle the wagons when shit went bad for one of them. If Ian was done with Mickey, then so were they. That’s just how things worked. She remembers how angry it made her when Jimmy kept trying to reinsert himself back into her life by going after her siblings. It pissed her off they would let him back in without her permission, that they could possibly let him think he was still family.

“We just—sometimes—we’re not the best with outsiders, you know? We tend to burn our bridges instead of just walkin’ away, like, you know, mature adults.”

“Yeah, I get that too.”

“Guess I just wanted to come by and let you know that we’re all happy you’re back. You’re welcome ‘round the house any time, okay? We just want Ian to be happy. I just want everyone to be happy,” she says, finally hitting on why she felt compelled to come here in the first place. “I mean, Lip’s maybe not _thrilled_ , but he’s getting over it.”

Mickey just nods, staring intently down at his own hands.

“And you should come by for dinner next weekend,” she suggests. “We’re trying to get together more often. I’ll make lasagna. What do you think?”

Mickey shrugs, still not looking at her. “Uh, maybe. I’ll check with Ian.” 

“Good.” Fiona stands and hauls Sasha back up into her arms. “Just try to be patient with him, okay?” she finds herself saying, even though she knows Ian would kill her for getting herself this involved in his relationship. She doesn’t want her little brother to fall victim to the same insecurities she has, doesn’t want the first sign of trouble to scare him out of pushing for what he wants. “He doesn’t got a lot of faith in himself when it comes to this kind of thing anymore. But you mean a lot to him, and he’s trying his best. Just remember that.”

Mickey simply nods again.

“And I mean it. You’re welcome ‘round the house. Any time.” She pauses for a moment and then adds, “Like family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. Next up is Mickey. :)


	10. Dinner and a Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s just dinner. It’s just dinner. It’s just dinner._ Mickey repeats the words over and over again in his head, hoping if he thinks them enough he might actually believe them.

Mickey Milkovich is having a shit day. A loud, astoundingly messy troop of Boy Scouts came into the diner that morning, tracking in all the mud from their camping trip inside with them. He was the one who got stuck cleaning their shit up, and, to make matters even worse, Debbie had expressly forbidden him from telling the noisy little fuckers to shut the hell up.

Then a still-drunk college student thought it would be hilarious to trip him with a full tub of bussed tableware balanced in his arms. Soggy food scraps went everywhere, mixing in with the shattered plates. He got stuck cleaning that fuckery up too, but at least Debbie let him give those douchebags a piece of his mind before kicking them out.

Now he’s finally free from work, but the universe isn’t quite done fucking with him yet. He decided to walk home and get some fresh air instead of taking the El, so of course it starts pouring while he’s still over a mile from his house. He’s completely drenched and frozen to his bones by the time he ducks into the Alibi.

“Shit, Mickey, you look like a drowned rat,” Kev laughs. “Go hang out under one of the hand dryers in the bathroom for a while before you sit on one my stools.”

“Fuck that. Just get me a drink.” Mickey throws his sopping coat over one of the empty stools and leans his elbows on the bar. “I’ve had a crap day.”

“Preaching to the choir here, Milkovich,” Tommy mutters into his beer from a few stools down. “Wait ‘til you get old. Soon every day becomes a crap day.”

“That’s only ‘cos you’re not getting laid, man,” Kev says, as he slides a beer toward Mickey. “Gotta get yourself a lady friend. Some regular lovin' makes everything better.”

“Only way I’m getting a lady friend any time soon is if our young, ex-con buddy over here opens up another whorehouse upstairs.”

Mickey shakes his head before taking a long, much-needed gulp of beer. “Not gonna happen,” he says, punctuated with a burp. “I’m straight now.”

Tommy snorts. “Now _that_ I find hard to believe. Saw you all over the ginger Gallagher kid the other night, like his dick holds the secrets of the universe or something.”

“Fuck. Off. You know what I fucking mean.”

The cell phone in his pocket buzzes for what has to be the hundredth time that day. He’s not surprised when he pulls it out and sees _Firecrotch_ on the screen. Since their drunken heart-to-heart in front of the Alibi, Ian has been texting him almost nonstop, even after they finally agreed to meet for their date that night.

_[Firecrotch]: we still on for tonight? 6:30 right?_

Even though he’s feeling pretty miserable, Mickey smiles when he reads the text. Ian has never known how to play things cool, but lately he’s been taking it to a new level. It’s amusing and more than a little flattering that he’s so nervous. Mickey writes back to tell Ian to chill the fuck out and that he’ll be there.

“Texting your girlfriend?”

Mickey just directs his middle finger Tommy’s way and takes another drink, trying to hide the fact that he’s still smiling. Even if these borderline-alcoholic assholes do nothing but bust his balls, it feels nice to be sitting in the Alibi again, unafraid of running into Ian or the rest of the Gallagher clan anymore. There’s something about this place that makes him feel at home. It’s where he finally told his dad to fuck off and revealed the truth of himself, consequences be damned. It’s where he figured out he must really fucking love Ian Gallagher, no matter how much that idea scared him. It’s where he realized people finding out he’s gay might not be the catastrophic, near-apocalyptic event he always imagined it to be, when Kev and the guys rambled on about Ellen DeGeneres.

“Hey, kiddo, I heard you were back.” V comes through the door with a grin on her face and reaches up to ruffle Mickey’s wet hair. “How’s it going?”

Mickey shrugs. “Busted my ass all day cleaning up other people’s shit. Needed a drink.”

“That’s every day when you got kids, man,” Kev says. “Though it’s more, like, meta—meta-hora—shit, V, what’s the word I’m looking for? That one you taught me the other day.”

“Metaphorical, babe.”

“Right, right, more _metaphorical_ shit than actual shit now that they can wipe their own asses and all. Still shit though.”

That makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. Most of the childcare duties, particularly those of the shit-cleaning variety, usually fell to Ian and Svetlana when Yev was still a baby. He’s starting to regret not being more involved when he had the chance. It had been hard to even look at the kid for a long time, and though he’s starting to appreciate that’s not entirely his fault, it hurts to think about everything he missed being afraid and then being locked up.

“Svetlana’s gonna bring the kid down soon,” Mickey tells them. “Her boss is an asshole about giving her time off apparently, but she’s got some vacation days saved up he’s not allowed to keep her from using. Should be good to see him again.” The thought is answered with a silence that drags on too long for Mickey’s comfort. When he looks up, he finds Kev, V, and Tommy looking at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“Uh, did you just willingly offer us personal info about your life? You get abducted by aliens in prison or something?” Kev asks. “Because that’s definitely a first.”

“What, you allowed to talk about your kids, but I ain’t allowed to talk about mine?”

“You can talk about anything you want, hon, we’re just surprised, that’s all,” V assures him, as she refills his beer. “How long’s it been since you saw him?”

“Too long.”

“Can’t even imagine that, man,” Kev sighs. “Hell, I freaked out when the twins started going to school. Missed ‘em.”

“He really did,” V says, rolling her eyes. “Cried like a damn baby.”

“Hey, I _teared_ _up_ at most—”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Kev.”

“Stop. Just stop. All these feelings are gonna make me sick,” Tommy complains. “My daughter ran off with some loser a while back, and I ain’t talked to her in years. But you don’t see me bitching. I come here to drink that shit away like the emotionally constipated jackass I am. Don’t you all go turning this into some kind of shrink session on me.”

“If us just talking about our kids is enough to make you sick, Tommy, then you got bigger problems than any kind of shrink session could tackle,” V snaps back, before turning her attention to Mickey again. “You got plans tonight? If you wanna come by for dinner, I’m making pasta.”

Mickey almost scowls at her, because seriously, what’s with everyone trying to feed him all the time? He’s not _that_ skinny. But he makes himself hold back and tries to keep his expression vaguely pleasant to neutral. After everything he’s been through lately, he’s not exactly in a place to be throwing kindness back in people’s faces.

“Can’t tonight. I uh—I got plans already,” he says, hoping they don’t make him elaborate.

But of course the first words out of Kev’s mouth are, “ _Ooh_ , what kind of plans?”

Mickey hesitates, trying to figure out the best way to admit he’s meeting up with Ian without them making it into a bigger deal than it is. “I just—I just already agreed to get dinner with someone, alright? Don’t make it a thing. It’s not a thing.”

“Yeah, sorry, you making a point of saying it’s not a thing means it _definitely_ is a thing,” V says, raising her eyebrows and flashing him an impossibly smug grin. “You got a date or something?”

_Goddamnit._ The last thing he wants to listen to right now is the barrage of gay jokes and unsolicited advice that will undoubtedly rain down upon him if he admits that, yeah, he is going on a date. But he also doesn’t want to lie. He has spent way too much time hiding the truth—from himself, from Ian, from everyone. It’s not a habit he wants to fall back into, even if it would make his life a hell of a lot less annoying.

“I’m meeting Ian for dinner, alright? Just at some shitty diner near his apartment. It’s not a—”

V squeals so loudly that Mickey flinches away and forgets whatever he was going to say, while Tommy and Kev grin and hold up their glasses like Mickey’s just given a wedding toast. “That’s so great, Mickey!” V exclaims, beaming at him, until she seems to remember something. She looks down at her phone on the bar counter and frowns. “Wait, so you gotta get out to Ian’s neighborhood? When are you supposed to meet him?”

“At 6:30, when he gets off work. Why?”

“At 6:30?” Kev shouts in his face. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“What d’you mean? It’s just dinner. I got plenty of—”

“ _Please_ tell me you plan on showering,” V interrupts with a grimace. “Dear god, please.”

“Mother Nature just took care of that, don’t you think? Got fucking soaked getting here, just gonna get fucking soaked again if I—”

“Oh, honey, no,” she coos, patting his elbow. “You realize you smell like soggy, burnt French fries, right? It’s sure as hell not the worst you’ve ever smelled, but it’s also not what I’d call sexy. That’s what you’re going for, right? Sexy? This isn’t just like a friends thing?”

“No, this isn’t a damn _friends_ thing,” Mickey grumbles, suddenly feeling incredibly self-conscious. He spends so much time at the diner these days, it’s sometimes hard to tell just how much he smells like it. “Whatever. Fucking fine. I’ll go home and shower.”

“You better, seriously,” Kev laughs. “Wasn’t kidding when I said you looked like a drowned rat, man.”

“And that shirt is horrible. You weren’t planning on wearing that, right?” Tommy asks, scrunching up his nose like someone's just farted. “It’s got ketchup all over it. Or blood? Shit, I hope that’s ketchup.”

“Jesus, you know what, fuck you guys.” Mickey shoves some money Kev’s way and prepares to march out, but V leans across the counter and grabs his shoulder before he gets very far.

“Hey, don’t get all grumpy,” she says gently. “We’re not trying to be mean.”

“Yeah, just trying to help you get laid, man,” Kev agrees. “Like I said, a little action makes everything better.”

“We got your back, Milkovich,” Tommy adds in. “Been out in the dating world longer than you’ve been alive, kid. I know what’s up.”

_We got your back._ It’s a nice sentiment, even if it sounds a little ridiculous coming from Tommy, who looks like he’s about two minutes away from falling asleep in his drink. The way they’re all staring at him makes him want to run the hell away, but he knows they mean well. He doesn’t understand why they give a shit. It’s been years since they’ve even seen him. But he decides not to start overthinking it and just says, “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll even agree to put on my least shitty shirt if you all agree to stop looking at me like that.”

They wish him luck and continue calling out unwanted guidance ( _Wear cologne! Nudge his foot under the table! Offer to pay!_ ), as he disappears through the door. Somehow he feels even more exhausted as he walks out than he did walking in.

 

* * *

 

_It’s just dinner. It’s just dinner. It’s just dinner._ Mickey repeats the words over and over again in his head, hoping if he thinks them enough he might actually believe them. Before going into the Alibi he hadn’t been worried at all. What was there really to worry about, right? This was Ian Gallagher, the boy who chose to hang around even when Mickey only showered about once a week tops. They had seen each other at their worst and at their best. They had gone through hell to be together. A simple dinner should be nothing compared to all that.

But it doesn’t feel like nothing anymore, now that he’s camped out in front of his bathroom mirror trying to get his hair to stop looking so stupid.

“You taking the world's longest shit in there or something?” Iggy calls out from the other side of the door. “You’ve been in there for like an hour, man.”

“The fuck’s it to you?” Mickey yells back. “Use the other bathroom!”

“Just making sure you’re not dead in there, asshole.”

After redoing his hair for the fourth time, Mickey finally feels too pathetic to try again, gives up, and throws open the door. Iggy looks up at him from the living room couch and smirks. “Slicked your hair back, huh?” Mickey grunts out an incoherent response and tries to duck away into his room, but Iggy just follows him. “Look at you, bro, all fancied up. Big night?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

“Got your nice shirt on, too. Must be a big deal.”

“How the hell do you know this is my nice shirt?”

“’Cos it’s the only one you’ve bought since you got outta the joint.”

The answer surprises him. Iggy’s usually so high, he’s shocked his brother has managed to notice anything about his life. “It’s just dinner. With Ian. Not a—”

“Aw, fuck, really, Mick? You already going back to that guy?”

Mickey frowns and turns to narrow his eyes at Iggy. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean? And why do you care?”

Iggy shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know, man. He just—he kind of fucked you over, you know? Broke your heart or whatever. After you let him storm around this house like a lunatic for months. He just fucked off on you.”

That answer surprises him even more. It’s certainly the most personal thing Iggy has ever said to him. Most of their conversations have revolved around whose turn it is to buy the beer or weed since they were kids. The only sibling he could almost, sort of talk to about this kind of shit had been Mandy once upon a time.

He feels torn between being oddly touched by what Iggy said and defensive on Ian’s behalf. Because it sure as hell ain’t as simple as Iggy probably thinks it is. “I spent a lot of time fuckin’ him over too, man, and he always let it go.”

“That why you're doing this? ‘Cos you feel like you owe him? That ain’t a good reason.”

“That ain’t the fucking reason. The fuck you know about it anyways?” Mickey spits. “When have you ever been in a relationship?”

“Ay, I dated that Ruby chick down the street for like six months. She even let me watch her kids a few times.”

“Yeah, well, I was with Ian for like three _years,_ and he took care of _my_ kid, so you can fuck right off. Just back off.”

Iggy sighs and holds up his hands, like he’s surrendering. “Wasn’t trying to piss you off, man. Think I’m just still kind of mad about him not showing up at the hospital or whatever.”

“I told you, Ig, he didn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know he didn’t know, but that’s not the only thing,” Iggy cuts in. “You were fucking miserable when I went to visit you at the prison, like right after you got convicted and shit. I’ve never seen you like that. Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it out alive, looking like that. And I know it was that ginger fuck’s fault.”

Mickey clenches his jaw and tries to consider his next words carefully. It’s not that he doesn’t understand where Iggy’s coming from with his concerns about Ian. He probably wouldn’t like it if some guy had walked off on Mandy the way Ian had walked off on him, but it’s not that simple. Nothing with him and Ian has ever been that simple.

“It’s complicated. He was sick—”

“And he’s still sick,” Iggy grumbles. “He’s always gonna be fucking sick! I looked up that word you all kept using back then on the internet— _bipolar_. That shit doesn’t go away, Mickey. How d’you know he’s not just gonna kidnap a kid and disappear again?”

“’Cos he’s on his meds now,” Mickey growls back. “You don’t know shit about shit, Ig. He’s doing fine. He’s doing everything he’s gotta do to be okay.”

“And why couldn’t he do that shit back then, huh?”

“Because it’s not that fucking easy!” Mickey shouts, throwing up his arms in frustration. “It ain’t easy accepting you got the same disease as the asshole mom that abandoned you. It ain’t easy accepting you gotta take meds that make you feel like shit for the rest of your life, alright? You got no idea what he was goin’ through, so back the fuck off. I'm serious.”

He expects Iggy to start yelling back or to flip him off or maybe to even throw a punch, but his brother just starts smiling at him instead, looking like a fucking serial killer. “Shit, you really love that dude, huh?”

Every muscle in his body seems to tense up all at once. It feels like someone has kicked him in the chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe normally. _Love_. That’s a word Mickey tries not to dwell on too much, not since he threw it out there only to get nothing back. But he knows Iggy’s not wrong. Mickey does love Ian. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t stopped loving Ian since that goof showed up to visit him in juvie the first time and put his stupid, freckled hand on the glass like they were boyfriends or something.

“You don’t gotta say it or nothin’,” Iggy finally says, after nearly a minute goes by with Mickey just staring blankly at him. “Just makes it all make more sense.”

“He’s not a bad person.”

“Okay, man, I believe you. You’d know better than me.” Iggy nods, all of the earlier anger gone from his voice, and claps Mickey on the shoulder. “But if he fucks up again, I’m gonna kill him. Just so you know. Gotta look out for my little bro. Might’ve failed Mandy, but I got my head on straighter now.”

Mickey snorts and pushes Iggy playfully away. This conversation is getting dangerously close to a heart-to-heart, and Mickey’s not sure he can handle that right now. “You can kick his ass, if you want. But you better not go killin’ someone unless you wanna go hang out with dad.”

Iggy practically shudders at that. “Jesus, no thanks.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, fuckhead,” Mickey laughs. “Alright, I gotta go, I’m gonna be late thanks to your ass.” Mickeys throws on his coat, checks his pockets for his wallet and keys, and then makes his way toward the door.

“He’s got a nice apartment, right? Near where you’re going?”

“The fuck you care?”

“’Cos I’m staying in and I ain’t in the mood to hear you two goin’ at it all night like the good ol’ days,” Iggy teases, waggling his eyebrows in a way that makes Mickey want to punch him in the face. “You ain’t exactly quiet in the sack, Mick.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Mickey shoots back, before slamming the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

The diner Ian picked looks a lot like Patsy’s, only about a thousand times more ridiculous. It’s got a hokey neon sign out front, harsh lighting that makes him feel like he’s just wandered into a gas station bathroom, and booths colored a shade of orange that should probably be limited to traffic cones. Mickey likes it instantly. He likes that with all the fancy coffee shops and yoga studios popping up in South Side that something that feels so much like home can manage to shove its away into this neighborhood against the odds.

“Hey, Mick!”

Mickey turns toward the voice to see Ian waving at him from one of the orange booths. His earlier fatigue from work fades away when he sees him. Ian’s hair clashes with the color of the seats and the fluorescent lighting makes him look like a freckled ghost, but Mickey’s breath still catches a little at the sight of him, energizing him. “Hey, man,” Mickey greets, as he slides in across from him. There are already two cups of coffee on the table. “Shit, am I late?”

“Nope, right on time,” Ian says. “I just got here a little early. Sorry if I reek of coffee, didn’t have time to run home first.”

“This whole place reeks of coffee, so I think you’re good.”

Ian laughs softly. “True, true. I uh—I ordered yours spiked,” Ian says, gesturing to the coffee on Mickey’s side. “Thought you might want a drink, after working all day.”

“Thank god.” He takes a gulp and relishes the subtle burn of alcohol on the back of his tongue. “Had a rough day.”

“Oh. That sucks.”

Mickey expects Ian to ask what happened and push for every little detail of his day, but he remains quiet instead. He’s looking down at his hands and tapping his long fingers on the table without any sort of rhythm. It’s a little awkward, just sitting there in silence, but it allows Mickey to get a good look at his date without being too obvious about it. He must have changed at work, because instead of wearing his typical button down dress shirt, he’s got on a white t-shirt with an orange and brown flannel over it. His hair is a little wet and messy from the rain, and Mickey just wants to reach over the table and runs his hands through it.

“So, how was work?” Mickey asks.

Ian’s eyes dart up from the table and then back down to his hands. “It was fine, same as most other days. Nothing exciting.”

Mickey waits for him to add something else or ask a question in return, but he falls maddeningly silent again. He’s so used to Ian doing the lion’s share of the talking that he can’t help but feel thrown off by this new, more reserved version of his ex-boyfriend. “How’d you end up working there anyways? Just wander out to North Side one day?”

“Nah, it was Lip, after I moved out here with him,” Ian answers, still not meeting Mickey’s eyes. “I wanted to start chipping in on the rent, felt like an asshole just living in his apartment without contributing or whatever. He was banging some girl who worked there, and she set up the interview for me. Think they just hired me to get some girls in there.”

“Started out as eye candy, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Ian sighs, apparently less amused by the idea than Mickey. “I was a hard worker though. I kind of just threw myself into it for a while. Decided if I was gonna be a barista, I was gonna be the best damn barista in Chicago. It was good to finally have a routine, made remembering to take the pills and shit easier.”

Ian doesn’t look too pleased about telling this story, but Mickey smiles anyways. Deciding to be the best barista in Chicago sounds exactly like the Ian he fell in love with, the one who did fuck knows how many push-ups every morning, the one who studied trig until he was muttering about sines and cosines in his sleep, the one who hated not immediately being the best at something.

“You like it?”

“Yeah, it’s growing on me. It’s definitely not what I saw myself doing, but it’s kind of interesting, running a business. They’ve been giving me a lot more responsibility lately,” Ian says. “How about you? How’s life at Patsy’s?”

“Sucks, man. I can see why you quit.” Ian just shrugs and then falls quiet again. “Ay, are you alright? Something wrong?”

Ian finally looks up and meets his eyes. There’s a small, almost shy, smile on his lips. “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he says. “I’m alright. I’m great, actually. I’m sorry. I’m being awkward as fuck, aren’t I? I’m just—I’m just sort of nervous.”

“The fuck you nervous for?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve just been thinking about doing this for who knows how many years, and now it’s happening, and if the past is anything to go off of, there’s a solid chance I’ll find a way to fuck it up,” Ian says, without stopping to take a breath. “That’s why I’m nervous.”

“Well, stop. Nothing to be nervous about. You didn’t show up with flowers, and you got me spiked coffee. So far you’re on a fucking roll.” Ian’s shy smile blooms into a real one that makes Mickey’s stomach do all sort of ridiculous flips. “Just relax, Gallagher. We’re here to have fun, right? Let’s have a little fucking fun.”

Before Ian can say anything to that, the waitress walks up to their table. “What can I get you boys?” she asks, popping her gum as she talks.

“A cheeseburger,” they both say in unison. “With fries, lots of fries,” Mickey adds, smirking at Ian. “And can we get some Cokes?”

“Sure thing, hon,” she chuckles, grabbing their menus. “I’ll be back soon with your food.”

“So,” Ian starts, “Not loving the life of a busboy then? Jesus, I was so bad at that job. Sean couldn’t stand me, and Fiona looked like she always one more fuck-up away from kicking my ass. They all called me the zombie behind my back.”

“Definitely not what I ever saw myself doing either,” Mickey admits. “But it’s just temporary, you know, hopefully. I mean, I got the GED now so—”

“Wait, _what_? Since when? You never told me that! That’s amazing!”

There’s such genuine excitement on Ian’s face that Mickey almost blushes. It’s been a long time since someone looked that proud of him. “Shut up, it’s just a fake high school diploma.” Mickey tries to play it casual, but he can feel the grin on his face. “Got it toward the end of my prison stint. Wasn’t much to do in there, so I figured why the hell not.”

“You’re eligible for tons of city jobs now, you know. I remember Fiona looking into them for a while after she got hers. I mean, the whole felony thing might make it—”

“Yeah, it ain’t easy being an ex-con,” Mickey says. “But I’m trying to figure it out. Bound to stumble on something eventually. Or at least when your sister gets her ass into college or something, Sean might give me her job.”

“Debs does seem to like it. God, this is such dull, adult talk. Next thing we know we’re gonna be talkin’ about retirement plans and health insurance.”

“Hah, like I got either of those,” Mickey laughs. “And yeah, but it’s not like we could be a stripper and a professional criminal forever, right? Not if we ever wanted a real life.”

“Right,” Ian agrees. “I kind of like the predictability of it all. It was boring at first, but then it grew on me, not always having to worry about making ends meet or what shit might go down tomorrow. Gives you time to actually think about the things you really want for once.”

Mickey wants to ask if one of those things is him, but ultimately decides it’s an unnecessary question. Ian’s here with him now, isn’t he? Looking the way he does, he could probably have anyone he wants. But he’s here. With him. “I know what you mean, man.”

Ian nods and looks down at his hands again. Mickey instantly misses his eyes. “So uh—this is an awkward question, but—um, are you seeing anyone?”

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “The fuck kind of question is that? ‘Course I am. I’m sitting here with you, aren’t I? Thought we were calling this a date.”

“No, yeah, of course. It _is_ a date. I mean, that’s what I want it to be. A date. With you,” Ian says, stumbling over his words. “I just meant, are you seeing anyone else? You know, someone who’s not me. Because it’s okay if you—”

“Why?” Mickey almost shouts the question and accidentally draws the attention of some young college kids sitting near them. He shoots a quick glare their way, and they go back to focusing on their milkshakes. “Why would I be seeing anyone else? Are _you_ seeing anyone else?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why would I be?”

“I don’t know. You just—you were in prison for so long, and I thought you might want to look around more before—before, you know.” Ian’s voice trails off, as he concentrates so intently on his coffee cup, it almost looks like he’s trying to whip it across the room with his mind Matilda-style. “I wouldn’t blame you. If that’s what you wanted.”

“What do I need to look around for?" 

“I don’t know,” Ian says, with a small shrug. “To find someone better.”

There’s something about the way Ian says it— _to find someone better_ —that makes Mickey feel like his heart is breaking. It’s insane to him that Ian could even think there’s someone better than him out there, at least for Mickey. He might not be some kind of world traveler or whatever, but he’s seen enough to know Ian Gallagher is who he wants.

“Tried that for a while, didn’t work. Just kept thinking about your pasty ass.” Mickey hopes the joke will be the end of that and lighten the mood at the same time. The last thing he wants is for this date to take a dark turn back into all the shit they talked about in front of the Alibi.

“It’s just—I’ve had time, and I know what I want—”

“I know what I want, too.”

“Are you _sure_ though? I just don’t want to rush you into anything.”

“Jesus Christ, Ian,” Mickey groans. “Can you quit trying to convince me to date other dudes while _we’re_ on a date? Haven’t been on many of these things, this routine now or something?”

Ian answers with a laugh that fills Mickey with relief. “No, no it isn’t. I’m just an idiot.”

The waitress returns and places two plates of food and drinks in front of them. The food looks amazing, but Mickey has a hard time focusing on that while Ian continues to laugh. There’s something about the sound of it and the way Ian looks when he’s smiling that makes something tug low in Mickey’s gut.

An idea suddenly comes to him. It’s a bit of a risk, but he’s pretty sure Ian will find it funny. “Ay, you know, if you want to make it up to me so badly, I can think of a better way than pushing me on to other dudes,” Mickey says, voice low, so the other tables won’t be able to hear him.

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” Ian asks, matching his tone. The way he raises one eyebrow and smirks make Mickey feel like his skin is catching fire.

“You could suck my dick, whenever I want.”

Ian’s mouth falls open. He just gapes at Mickey for a while until he suddenly snorts and bursts into another fit of laughter. “Should’ve known you’d find a way to throw that back in my face, asshole.”

“I’m dead serious, man.”

“That how we gonna solve all our problems? Sucking each other’s dicks?”

“Don’t know why you’re acting like that’s not the most brilliant plan I’ve ever come up with,” Mickey says, trying not to laugh himself. “Worked out pretty well last time, far as I’m concerned.”

Ian’s laughter starts to die down and his face becomes more serious. Mickey worries he’s said something wrong, but then Ian fixes him with a look that can only be described as _predatory_. His eyes are dark as he leans over the table, glides his hand over Mickey’s, and whispers, “I have to go to the bathroom. Be right back.”

The real meaning of the words isn’t lost on him, but he doesn’t want to be too obvious by following after him straightaway. Instead, he leans back in the booth and lets himself get a long look at Ian’s ass in the tight, dark jeans he wears nowadays. He imagines running his hands over that ass, gripping it and pulling Ian into him. He’s already getting hard at the thought of it and can’t stand to wait another second.

He spots the unisex bathroom, lets out a soft chuckle, and quickly ducks inside. Ian is leaning against the sink when he locks the door behind him, his arms crossed in front of his chest and a smirk still on his lips. “You have this place in mind when you asked me here, Gallagher?”

“Romantic, right? Nice and roomy. Private.”

“Yeah, real classy.”

“Hey, we’ve fucked in worse places,” Ian says, voice rough, as he walks forward and grabs Mickey by the collar. “I’ve been thinking about this for—”

Mickey doesn’t let him finish the thought. They’ve done enough talking. He grips the back of Ian’s neck, tangling his fingers in the hair there, and tugs him down until their lips collide. The way Ian moans, dirty and desperate, sparks something deep in Mickey, makes him almost frantic for more contact. As the kiss intensifies, Mickey does what he imagined in the booth and grasps Ian’s ass, pulling their bodies closer together. Ian moans again, resting his hand on the side of Mickey’s neck and pushing his thumb on his pulse. But then he backs away slightly, breaking the kiss, and moves his hands to Mickey’s belt instead.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, Mick. Gonna make you feel so good.”

As soon as Mickey's belt is undone, Ian fists a hand in the front of Mickey’s shirt and pushes him until he’s backed up against the wall by the door. He drops to his knees, taking Mickey’s pants down with him. Mickey’s thought about this so many times, pictured Ian looking up at him like this, but no fantasy can compare to the real feeling of Ian’s fingers pushing under his shirt and then running down the back of his boxers to grip his ass. When Ian starts to knead his cheeks, Mickey thrusts his hips forward, unabashedly needy. “Come on, man,” Mickey whines. “Need you.”

“ _Shh_ ,” Ian chuckles, pressing a kiss just underneath Mickey’s bellybutton. “I’m gonna take care of you. Don’t worry.” He pulls down Mickey’s boxers, finally allowing his cock to spring free, and places another kiss on Mickey’s hipbone. He continues on like that for an infuriatingly long time, kissing and running his tongue along everywhere—his stomach, the insides of his thighs, the ridges of his hips—but his dick.

“Restaurant bathrooms ain’t the place for taking your time.”

Ian responds by grabbing his dick, pumping it once, twice, three times, and then running his tongue along the underside of it without warning. Mickey gasps and knocks his head back hard against the wall with a grunt. Ian chuckles again, his breath ghosting over Mickey’s cock in the most painfully wonderful way. “Haven’t been this close to your dick in a long fucking time, Mick. Let me enjoy it.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Mickey breathes, running a hand through Ian’s soft hair. The lighting is awful, but Mickey loves the way Ian’s hair seems to light up underneath it anyways. He finds himself entranced by the different shades of red and orange and gold that run through it, when Ian suddenly swallows him down, swift and deep, making Mickey’s vision go dark for a second.

“Holy fuck. _Jesus_.”

Ian hums in answer, and Mickey feels his knees giving out slightly. But Ian’s got a firm grip on his hips, fingertips digging into his skin. As Ian begins to bob his head up and down, Mickey finds himself hoping there are bruises there in the morning. Bruises he can press down on when his mind inevitably drifts back to this moment.

The feeling is almost more than he can take, soft and warm, as Ian’s mouth slides against his sensitive skin. “Fuck, Ian, _fuck_.” Ian hums again, and Mickey has to clench his teeth to keep himself from holding any tighter to Ian’s hair than he already is.

He’s not going to last long. He’s known that since Ian stared him down at the table, but when he looks down and meets Ian’s eyes, sees Ian’s mouth stretched around him, he can’t hold on any longer. “Shit, shit, Ian, I’m gonna—” 

Ian just takes him deeper, sucks harder. He releases one of Mickey’s hips and lightly slaps his ass, which Mickey takes as a go-ahead. His body feels loose and warm and perfect as he comes in Ian’s mouth, his fingers still laced gently through Ian’s hair.

He closes his eyes and leans his head back on the wall again, reveling in how fucking _good_ he feels. He's not sure when Ian stands back up, but he suddenly feels his breath hot against his ear. “Missed you,” he whispers. “Missed that.”

Mickey nods, unable to get the words he wants to say out just yet, _I missed you too._

Ian beams at him and then starts pulling his boxers back up, dressing him slowly and letting his fingers linger on Mickey’s skin. “We should probably get back out there. They’re gonna think we’re a couple of weirdos who skipped out on the bill without actually eating the food.”

“Want me to get you back?” Mickey asks, still a little breathless. He runs his hand along the waist of Ian’s jeans, licking his lips at the thought of what’s hidden inside of them. “Missed your dick.”

“Bet that’s all you missed about me, huh?” Ian teases, kissing his jaw. “I’m good. Let’s go eat our cheeseburgers, they're probably getting cold. You can get me back later. We got time.”

_We got time._ It feels so incredible to hear Ian say that and to actually believe him. Because they _do_ have time. It finally feels like they’re getting the chance to just be them, without shitty parents or unexpected illnesses being thrown in their way. It finally feels like nothing can stop them.

“I missed all of you, loser,” Mickey says, pressing his lips to Ian’s one more time.

 

* * *

 

The air is biting cold. It’s sobering after the night he’s had. Three spiked drinks later and the feel of Ian’s lips still tingling on his skin, Mickey’s on a high unlike any he can remember. There are people everywhere, walking home from parties or the library or whatever college kids do on Friday nights, but Mickey doesn’t care at all that Ian’s got his arm draped around his shoulders and his face shoved up right against Mickey’s.

“Coming home with me on our first date, Mick,” Ian whispers, with a giggle. “Didn’t peg you for such a harlot.”

“The fuck’s a harlot?”

“A woman of loose morals.”

“Yeah, whatever, ain’t the one who got on my knees in a bathroom, am I?”

“Fuck you, like you’ve never been on your knees in a bathroom.” They turn the corner down the street to Ian’s apartment. Mickey leans in closer to him, as they speed up, walking as quickly as possible without breaking out into a jog. “But if you’d rather get on your knees in a bedroom like a proper lady, I’m pretty sure that can be arranged.”

“Don’t know. Gonna need you to woo me first, Gallagher.”

“Oh, blowing you and buying you a perfectly adequate cheeseburger ain’t enough for you? When'd you get so high-maintenance?”

As they walk down the steps to Ian’s door, still wrapped up in each other, Mickey hears the faint sound of music. Ian digs into his pocket for his keys and curses under his breath. “I swear to god, if Lip’s got his asshole friends over right now, I’ll—”

The door swings open before Ian can even get the key in the slot. Lip Gallagher stares back at them, face red and eyes unfocused. “Oh shit, hey guys!” he exclaims, his voice squeaking. He holds out his arms and wraps them both into an awkward, mostly unreturned group hug. “I was just running out to get some more booze. What’re you doing here?”

“Jesus, Lip, I _told_ you.”

“Told me—? Oh, fuck, was that tonight? Your date?”

“Yeah, that was tonight, jackass. How many people you got here?" 

Lip looks sheepish, as he glances behind him. “Uh, you know, just a couple of friends.”

Just a couple of friends apparently means a bunch of drunk douchebags in backwards hats and girls wearing t-shirts strategically chopped up to show their bras. One of those girls latches on to Ian as soon as they walk through the door. “Hey!” she calls out to the others. “It’s the hot guy from Rosa’s!”

Lip pulls the girl off Ian, snaking his arms around her, so she ends up attaching herself to him instead. “Told you he was gay, Katie. Leave the guy alone.”

“Such a shame when they’re _that_ hot.”

Mickey snorts. “Shame for her maybe.”

“Come on,” Ian says, tugging at his sleeve. “Let’s go to my room.”

“Hey, Ian, man, I’m—”

Ian waves his brother off and keeps walking. “Whatever.”

Ian immediately falls back and sprawls across his bed when they close the door, blocking out the shitty music playing outside just enough that Mickey feels less inclined to take a baseball bat to their speakers. “Sorry about this,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I must’ve told Lip like a hundred times not to be here tonight.”

“That sure you were gonna get laid? Cocky bastard.” Mickey takes a seat next to him at the end of the bed and slides a hand down the front of Ian’s t-shirt. “Mood's kind of dead now, huh?

"Lip is such an asshole," Ian grumbles.

"Sure you don’t wanna go out there for a while? Don’t know if they’re like your friends or something.”

“I hang out with them sometimes, I guess, but only because they’re always hanging around Lip,” Ian says, shrugging. “They’re not really my people. They’re all like engineers or scientists or shit like that. They blab on and on about stuff that makes zero sense to me, and I nod along. It’s not exactly a blast. Until they get hammered. They’re definitely more fun when they’re hammered. But I’d rather be here with you anyways.”

“Yeah, me too. They looked like assholes.” Ian closes his eyes, nodding, and Mickey starts looking around the room. It’s sparsely decorated compared to Ian’s old room, which was practically wallpapered with magazine cutouts of army guys and weird bands he liked. There’s a desk in the corner, with a laptop and some piled up books on top. A corkboard is hanging on the wall in front of it with a schedule of gym classes and some pictures of the Gallaghers pinned to it. It’s nice and adult and a little boring, if he’s being honest. He wonders if Ian’s maybe trying just a little too hard to seem normal.

“Hey, how ‘bout we make this a classic date? Dinner and a movie!”

“I am way too fucking exhausted to drag my ass to a movie theater right now.”

“Yeah, no way that’s happening,” Ian says, groaning and stretching out his arms. “But I got Netflix on my laptop. Sure we can find something with buff guys killing each other just like you like.” Ian springs up from the bed and walks over to the desk. Before he grabs the laptop, he downs some pills with a water bottle so quickly, Mickey almost doesn’t notice.

“Don’t pretend like that ain’t what you like, too,” Mickey says, as he looks away and arranges the absurd amount of pillows Ian’s got on his bed along the headboard for them to lean against. “If you try to tell me you like that artsy shit now, I’m leaving.”

“Nah, not even Lip watches that shit. Just acts like he does when girls are around.”

Ian props the laptop up on a book at the end of the bed, and after a few minutes of bickering they eventually agree on a movie. They’re not even halfway through it when Ian starts to drift off, his head lolling back against the pillows and his hand going limp in Mickey’s. When he starts snoring, Mickey throws a blanket over him, snaps the laptop shut, and walks it back over to the desk.

When he’s standing in front of it, looking at pictures of Gallaghers grinning at the camera, he remembers something Ian had said to him when he was talking about his ex— _I keep your letters in my desk at my apartment_. Cautiously, trying not to make too much noise, he eases open the drawer. Sure enough, there they all are, stacked neatly on top of each other next to some pens and little reminder cards for doctor appointments.

He shuffles back over to the bed, still careful to stay quiet. He slips under the blanket and throws some of the extra pillows to the floor until he’s comfortable. It wasn’t in his plans to stay over, but he doesn’t have work until late tomorrow and he doesn’t want to leave, so he figures why not. Ian’s warm next to him, and Mickey finds himself drawn to it, snuggling in closer to him until he has his head resting on Ian’s shoulder. He thinks of the letters in Ian’s desk, of Ian’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and their hands entwined. He presses a kiss to Ian’s collarbone and then closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally finished outlining this story, and it's looking like it's going to be 21 chapters.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Ian's up next. :)


	11. A Day at the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian stares at himself in the mirror. He looks ready for the day. He looks like a perfectly normal twenty-five year old guy. No one will look twice at him when he leaves his apartment. But he doesn’t feel ready, doesn’t feel normal.

Two matching shoes. Freshly cleaned jeans and his favorite flannel shirt. Neatly brushed hair. Wallet in his back pocket, cell phone and keys in his front.

Ian stares at himself in the mirror. He looks ready for the day. He looks like a perfectly normal twenty-five year old guy. No one will look twice at him when he leaves his apartment. But he doesn’t feel ready, doesn’t feel normal. Every little thing he’s done that morning—getting out of bed, turning on the shower, rinsing the shampoo from his hair, brushing his teeth, putting on deodorant—has felt like an incredible effort. It’s barely past eight, and he already feels weary, like he’s just worked a full day.            

The pills catch in his throat. Or at least it feels like they do. It’s entirely possible he’s imagined the sensation, even if he’s now coughing over the sink, desperately downing another handful of water to wash away the choked feeling.

“You okay in there?”

Ian doesn’t answer, just dries his hands and gives his reflection one last annoyed look before exiting the bathroom. It’s a sick joke that he can look so well when inside it feels like he’s wading through quicksand, like every step he takes is dragging him further down and adding more weight to his shaky legs.

But he needs to push through it. Today is not the day to fall apart. He’s managed the last few days like this, slogging through work and class without complaint, so there’s no reason he can’t do it again. In a few hours, he’ll pick Mickey up and they’ll head to the park to meet Svetlana and Yevgeny. It’s been months since he last saw them and so much longer than that since Mickey’s seen them without being trapped behind prison glass. He’s not about to fuck up their reunion with his issues.

Lip is bustling around the kitchen when Ian walks out. The entire apartment smells like eggs and bacon and coffee, which normally would be a pleasant surprise but today just makes Ian feel nauseous. He immediately goes for the fresh pot of coffee anyways. He tries to limit his caffeine intake these days, as anything that can fuck with his sleep schedule is just asking for trouble, but he needs it this morning. Needs something that can wake him up and make him feel like an actual person rather than a zombie going through the motions.

“Hey, you alright? Nervous about seeing the kid or something?” Lip asks.

That’s a part of it, he’s sure. He’s been anxious about the visit since Svetlana called to let him know which days to take off. But it’s not seeing Yevgeny that scares him. It’s more that things will be different now that Mickey’s back, and he’s not sure how he fits in or what the rules are anymore. He used to be better at just going with the flow and figuring things out as he went along. It's harder for him now though, now that rules and routine have become so important to his life.

Ian loves Yevgeny, considers him his own son in a lot of ways, but he’s not really Ian’s son. He loves Mickey too, more than he’s ready to admit to anyone but himself just yet, but he’s not really Ian’s boyfriend. At least he’s pretty sure he’s not. They’ve gone on more dates since their night at the diner, and Mickey even sleeps over sometimes, but they haven’t talked about it. Mickey doesn’t mention it, and Ian has been too chickenshit to push the issue. He hates the feeling of not quite belonging, of not quite knowing where he stands. It’s a feeling that’s quietly haunted him since Lip announced he wasn’t actually Frank’s kid at the family dinner from hell.

“I’m fine.” Lip holds out a plate of food to him, but Ian waves it away, stomach churning at the sight of it. “Not hungry. Sorry.”

“Come on. You gotta eat, man.”

Ian plucks off a lightly buttered piece of toast and grudgingly chews on that, as he takes a seat at the kitchen counter.

“Seriously? I get up early, make us a breakfast fit for fucking kings, and all you’re gonna eat is a piece of a toast?” Ian just shrugs, and Lip scowls at him. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

“Just not feeling great. No offense meant to your gourmet cooking,” Ian mutters, rolling his eyes. “Why’d you go through all the trouble anyways? Got a girl here?”

Lip’s eyes widen, and Ian knows his brother hasn’t even heard his questions, too caught up on the first part of what Ian’s said. “What do you mean? You feel sick? Like a stomach bug or—?”

“Don’t do that,” Ian interrupts. “That wasn’t an invitation for an interrogation.”

“I’m not interrogating you. I’m just—”

“Stop.” Ian grabs a second piece of toast, hoping that will put a rest to the conversation. The last thing he needs is Lip nagging at him and making him doubt himself even more. Ian’s fine. He has to be fine. It’s too early in his renewed relationship with Mickey to be falling apart again. It’s just an off day. Even crazy people are allowed off days, right? Plus, he’s already called his doctor. Just another day, and this will all get sorted out. “I’m nervous about seeing Yev, that’s all. With Mickey and everything. You were right the first time, don’t turn this into a thing. Please.”

“Why should _you_ be worried? You’re not the one who’s been in prison. You’ve been more of a father to that—”

“Don’t,” Ian cautions, before Lip can finish the thought. “I know you mean well, but don’t.”

Lip heeds the warning and his mouth settles into a hard line. Ian can see him thinking, can see the gears turning in his brother’s head, as he weighs the pros and cons of pushing Ian on this. “I just don’t get it,” Lip finally says, and Ian groans. “I just don’t. Mickey didn’t even want the kid.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t love him now,” Ian retorts, throwing down his unfinished piece of toast. “He’s grown up since then, and the whole thing is a fuck of a lot more complicated than you realize.” Ian remembers the sting of Terry’s fist, the gun pointed to his chest, and the broken look on Mickey’s face. He wishes he could stop seeing that face. If he could, he’d probably excise that memory from his brain forever.

“Well, that’s because you don’t fucking tell me anything, Ian,” Lip gripes, leaning back against the sink and folding his arms in front of his chest. “How am I supposed to know what’s gonna get you all pissy when you don’t tell me shit?”

Ian can’t handle having this argument again. He’d love to be able to tell Lip everything, but there are some parts of his life he never wants to give voice to. No matter how hard Lip or Fiona or even his doctor pushes. There are some things he wants to keep locked away in the back of his mind until he forgets they were ever there at all. “So you got a girl over or what?” Ian asks, evading Lip’s familiar grievance. “Might want to clean the living room a little if you—”

“No girl,” Lip says. “I just—I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Oh. Fantastic,” Ian drawls.

“Shut up, smartass. It’s not bad.”

“It’s not bad, so you had to butter me up with breakfast first? _Sure_.”

“It’s good. If you let it be good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lip leans across the counter so that he and Ian are only an arm’s length apart. “So, I got invited to this big academic conference out in California in the spring to present the shit I’ve been working on. It’s kind of a big deal. The university’s gonna foot the bill and everything. They’re so pumped, might even be able to convince 'em to send me first class.”

Ian has no idea why Lip would feel the need to make him breakfast for this kind of news, but for the first time that day he feels a spark of excitement cut through the fog inside of his brain. “That’s amazing, man!” Ian exclaims, reaching over to clap Lip on the shoulder. “Congrats! California, huh? Bet that’ll be something.”

“Yeah, I bet it will,” Lip agrees. “And I want you to come with me.”

“What?”

“Come with me!” Lip laughs, holding out his arms. “Come on, Ian, you’ve barely even been out of Chicago. You’ve never seen the fucking ocean. We’ll share the hotel room the school pays for. Order room service on them the whole time. We’ll still have to buy one plane ticket, but we can split it. We can make it work. What d’you say?”

_California._ The offer is tempting, but the timing feels wrong. Sometimes it feels like everything in his life is made of glass and one careless move is all it will take to shatter it again. “I don’t know,” Ian begins slowly. “I mean, I’ve got work, and they’ve been—”

“Ian, you haven’t taken a real vacation in all the years you’ve worked at that place. You got paid time off, fucking use it already!” Lip almost shouts, exasperated. “Come on. Don’t talk yourself out of this. You’re allowed to have nice things. Let me give you this.”

“I know what I’m _allowed_ to have, thanks,” Ian spits back. “And I’m still working on things with Mickey. And what if Fiona needs something and neither of us are here? And what if the jet lag messes with me, you know? It could fuck up my sleep. What if I have an ep—?”

“Don’t. Don’t do this. You’re stable, and even if something were to happen, we know how to deal with it now. And if shit goes down here, Fiona can figure it out with Debbie,” Lip says. “They’re adults, Ian. They can fix their own shit without us. And Mickey’s an adult. He can live without your ass for a fucking week. Just ‘cos he’s stuck in the great state of Illinois for the foreseeable future, doesn’t mean you should be too.”

There’s something about the idea of sitting on a beach in California while Fiona and Debs take care of a baby on North Wallace and Mickey pulls double shifts at Patsy’s Pies that makes him feel slightly ill. No one’s ever handed _them_ a vacation. Why should he have this and not them when he’s caused them so much grief? He starts to shake his head, but Lip swiftly cuts off his next round of excuses before he can even say them. “Jesus, if it helps, don’t make this about you."

“Then who’s it about?”

“Me. It’s about me. This is a big fucking deal for me, Ian. This is a big fucking deal for my career, and I want my best friend there to see it, alright?”

The sincerity and hint of vulnerability in his brother’s voice makes Ian’s chest feel tight. Lip’s probably just pandering to him, knowing he’ll find a way to talk himself out of going if Lip doesn’t guilt him into it, but he wants to believe him.

When Ian doesn’t answer right away, Lip sighs and scrubs his hand over his face. “I’m serious, Ian. I really want you there. And I trust you to stay on my ass, make sure I stay sober. Last thing I need is to go fuckin’ up my reputation right off the bat at one of these things.” Ian still doesn’t answer, and he can tell Lip’s growing more frustrated by the way he’s starting to clench his fists. “You gotta stop punishing yourself at some point. You’re the only one who doesn’t think you deserve shit like this. Trust me.”

That makes his chest feel even tighter, to the point where it’s getting hard to breathe. He pictures himself coming home with cheap souvenirs and photos of himself in front of palm trees. It seems selfish, to do such things while the people he loves stay in the places they’ve always been. He’s not sure how Lip’s been able to handle it all these years, living out here, going to fancy parties and fancy places with his various fancy girlfriends, as his family wishes him the best from their crumbling house. Ian doesn’t begrudge him any of those experiences, but he wonders if his brother has felt guilt like this. He wonders if Svetlana and Mandy ever feel like this, living in their nice houses far away from South Side, or if they’re just happy to have escaped.

“Come on, just say you’ll come with me. It’s one little vacation. A fucking week at most. Everything will still be right where you left it when we come back, I promise.”

They stare each other down until Ian finally starts laughing and relents when Lip starts trying to give him puppy dog eyes. “Jesus, fine. I’ll go to your gay ass nerd conference with you and make an idiot out of myself.”

“Just gotta come to _my_ presentation,” Lip assures him. “You can spend the rest of the time on the beach, far away from all the nerds.”

A smile spreads across his face, one he feels powerless to stop. Ian used to think he’d see the world one day. When he gave up on the army, he gave up on that dream too. But maybe that was too rash. California would be a hell of a place to start, after all. “Thanks, man,” Ian says, clinking his coffee mug against Lip’s. “I’m glad you asked me.”

“Damn right you are.” Lip beams at him. It’s the most open and happy Ian’s seen Lip in months, so he grins back even wider despite how drained he feels. “Alright, I gotta get to the library before class. I’ll text you the dates so you can take work off. And good luck today, yeah? I’m sure everything’ll go fine. And, hey, if things do go to shit, just remember that in a few months you’ll be seeing the fuckin’ ocean.”

 

* * *

 

“I hate going to that fucking big-box store, man,” Mickey mutters, as he throws a book with colorful dragons illustrated along the front and back at Ian to wrap. “There are too many fucking people on this earth, and all the dumbest ones seem to meet up there. It’s a fucking nightmare. Why aren’t there any bookstores around here anymore?”

“Did we _ever_ have a bookstore around here?”

“There was that one over near the school, wasn’t there? Pretty sure my weird cousin used to lift books from it.”

“You mean the public library?”

“Yeah, whatever, close enough.” Mickey walks over to where Ian’s sitting on the couch and stops in front of him, watching intently as he tapes the birthday cake covered wrapping paper neatly into place. “What kind of kid wants a _book_ for his birthday anyways? Especially a gay one like that. I read the back of it, man. It’s about elves and shit, like that stupid movie you made me watch when we had your house to ourselves.”

“Christ, Mick. Will you ever stop whining about that? It was like ten years ago, we only watched maybe an hour of it before we started fucking on the couch instead, and at least the guy with the hood was hot,” Ian grumbles back. “And I don’t know. A smart one, I guess. Though Lip always asked us for weed or cash.”

Mickey thumbs at his nose and sighs. “I should’ve gotten himself somethin’ else, right? Svet’s probably fucking with me.”

“No, if Svet said he wants it, he wants it, alright? She wouldn’t do that,” Ian soothes, running his hand up and down Mickey’s arm. When he reaches Mickey’s hand, he tries to twine their fingers together, but Mickey pulls away, crossing his arms. “Mick, the only birthday present my father has ever given me was a can of beer and a black eye. This is sweet. He’s gonna love it. 'Sides, I thought you were a reader now.”

"Ain't much else to do in prison," Mickey says, with a shrug. “Whatever. What’d you get him?”

Ian places the book to the side and pulls the junior football from his bag. The red bow he tied around it looks a little sad now, but he’s pretty sure Yev’s not going to be too concerned with that. “Fi got Liam one of these when he was about Yev’s age so—”

“Shit,” Mickey curses. “Really, Ian?”

Ian feels his stomach drop. “What? What’s wrong?”

“He’s gonna fucking love that,” Mickey groans, swiping at his bottom lip. “I can’t believe I got him a fucking book. Goddamn it.”

Ian tosses the ball to the side, stands, and opens up his arm, but Mickey steps away from him again, shaking his head. “Come on, Mick, just relax. He’s gonna love the book. And if you’re really worried about it, we can combine the presents.”

Mickey’s eyes widen at that, and Ian internally scrambles to figure out what he’s done wrong. “I uh—I don’t know about that. Might give the kid the wrong idea.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You know, I just—I don’t want him thinking things about us, you know?”

_I don’t want him thinking we’re a couple_ , is what Ian hears. _I don’t want him thinking we’re gay._ And if Ian’s stomach had dropped before, this time it fucking plummets. He feels like an idiot. They haven’t even had sex yet or defined the relationship, and Ian’s trying to give joint birthday presents to Mickey’s son. He’s always moved too fast. No matter how hard he tries, he can never seem to keep his heart from sprinting out ahead of his brain.

“Ay, you okay?” Mickey asks, frowning.

_No, I want to know where we stand. I want everything to be the way that it was again._ “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure? You’ve been acting kind of weird. You feeling okay?” Mickey presses the back of his hand against Ian’s forehead, and Ian forces himself to smile in response, not wanting the embarrassment and hurt to show on his face. Today is Mickey’s day, and he doesn’t want to push or make any of this about him and his stupid, probably irrational feelings.

“Yeah, I’m fine, really,” he says, reaching up to grasp Mickey’s hand in his. “Why don’t you just take both?" 

“Both what?”

“The presents.”

“Nah, fuck that. You got it for him, man, you should give it to him. Even if you’re gonna make me look like that one asshole neighborhood lady who gives out apples on Halloween,” Mickey laughs, nudging him playfully. “A fucking book. Can’t believe Svet convinced me to get him a fucking book.”

“He’s gonna love it.” Ian snakes his arms around Mickey’s waist and pulls him forward until their bodies are pressed together. The feeling of Mickey relaxing under his touch helps Ian calm down. Things might not be the same yet, and maybe they never will be, but at least Mickey’s here with him now.

 

* * *

 

The sun is shining by the time they get to the park. It’s the nicest day of the year so far, so nice that Ian doesn’t even need his jacket over his flannel. “Hey, I see them,” Ian says after they stop, motioning to where Svetlana and Yevgeny are sitting on a nearby bench. “And, look, the kid’s got a book in his hands. Told you.”

When he turns back, he’s surprised by how agitated Mickey suddenly looks. “Why didn’t you tell me this park was so close to your apartment?” he asks, glancing around. “I didn’t mean to be a dick, you coming all the way out to my place to pick me up.”

“Mick—”

“I know gas ain’t cheap, man. I could’ve taken the El or—”

“I _wanted_ to come get you,” Ian tells him, resting his hand on Mickey’s cheek. He brushes his thumb across his cheekbone and breathes a small sigh of relief when Mickey doesn’t pull away from him. “I want to spend as much time with you as I can, gas prices be damned.”

A smile tugs at Mickey’s lips. Even if he doesn’t let it fully form, Ian counts it as a win. “Alright, alright, put a lid on the sappiness and let’s go do this thing, Gallagher. If we end up being late, Svet’s gonna bring out the hammer.”

“You think she still carries that thing around with her?” Ian asks, as they step out of the car.

“Better safe than fucking sorry." 

“Hey! Piece of shit! Orange boy! Over here!” Svetlana’s surprisingly cheerful-sounding voice rings out over the sounds of kids laughing and cars driving by. Mickey scowls at the greeting, but Ian smiles at the old nickname.

Yevgeny drops his book when he spots them and dashes out in front of his mother. At first, Ian assumes he’s running toward Mickey. And Mickey seems to think the same, judging by the way he stops and lifts his arms a little. He doesn’t realize until Yevgeny’s crashing into him and his arms are wrapping tightly around Ian’s middle that he was the intended target. “Ian!” Yevgeny exclaims into his stomach, bouncing a little on his toes. “Can we get ice cream today? Like we used to before I moved?”

Ian shoots Mickey a nervous glance before returning the hug and ruffling up Yev’s dark hair. “Course we can,” he says, with a smile. “You remember that, huh?”

“ _Duh_ , we used to go every Friday,” Yev answers, looking at Ian like that was the dumbest question ever asked. “Mom still takes me on Fridays sometimes, but it’s not the same. And she only lets me get one scoop.”

“One scoop? Well, then we’ll have to fix that, won’t we? Chocolate chip still your favorite?” When Yev nods enthusiastically, Ian can’t help but beam down at him. A sort of warmth bursts in his chest, the same warmth he used to feel when he held him as a baby, when he used to listen to him babble on about cartoons and school and dinosaurs as they sat in the old ice cream shop near the Alibi. “Still got that sweet tooth, huh? Your dad over here always had a sweet tooth too. His favorite is chocolate though. Or those frozen Snickers bars with the ice cream in them.”

“Those are good too!” Yev says, as they both turn to look at Mickey. The expression on his face is hard for Ian to read. There’s a smile there, but Ian can always tell when he’s struggling with something, and he looks to be now. His thumb is flicking at his nose again, and his eyes are a little wet. “Are those really your favorites, Dad?”

“Yeah,” Mickey confirms, his voice a little hoarse. “Been a while since I had either of ‘em though. Ian’s got a good memory.” Slowly, Mickey squats down a little and then lifts his arms again, holding them open. The gesture makes Ian grin wider. He knows how hard it is for Mickey to put himself out there, even with the people he cares for the most, and he can’t help but feel proud of him. “Come here, little man.” Yevgeny finally lets go of Ian and moves toward Mickey. He drops his head shyly, looking nervous, but he throws himself into the embrace all the same.

“Look at you, orange boy,” Svetlana says, poking Ian in the ribs and distracting him from the reunion. “You are not so skinny anymore, like long stretched out man. You look like real man now. Like you could toss lover around.”

“If you wanted to be tossed around, Svet, all you had to do was ask,” Ian teases, as pulls her into a hug. “It’s good to see you too. You look great.”

“Yes, I know. Piece of shit looks good too,” she remarks, nodding over to where Mickey and Yevgeny are still hugging. There are definite tears in Mickey’s eyes now, as he runs his hand over the top of his son’s head. “You are making sure he takes care of himself, yes?”

“Doing a fine job of that on his own actually.”

Mickey coughs when he and Yevgeny break apart and runs his sleeve quickly over his eyes. Ian wants to reach out to him, squeeze his arm or hold his hand, but he stays rooted in place. “You guys weren’t waiting long, right?” Mickey asks. “We left on time, but there was some traffic.”

“No, only here five minutes. You are very punctual,” she says, smirking. “Yev, you want to stay and talk with your dad while orange boy and I get us ice cream? You tell him about science fair, yes? Yevgeny won second place.”

“Hey, that’s awesome, Yev,” Ian says. “Congratulations.” He holds out his hand, and Yev gives him a quick high-five.

“Thanks, Ian!” Yevgeny flushes red and drops his head again, so some of his hair falls in front of his face. “The first place one was really cool. I knew it was going to win.” Mickey pats Yevgeny on the back and smiles down at him, though he looks slightly panicked at the idea of being left on his own. “I’ll tell Dad about it now, and I can tell Ian later. After ice cream.”

 

* * *

 

The day is going smoother than Ian had expected. Mickey hasn’t stopped smiling since his son hugged him, and he’s not sure he’s ever seen Yevgeny look so happy either. It almost feels like the old days, except they never did things like this in the old days. They were always too busy with their own jobs and schemes and problems to ever take an entire day at the park together.

They’ve taken up a space along the fountain now. Yevgeny is tucked in next to him, staring down at the water and trying to count the pennies shimmering at the bottom. Mickey ran back to the car to get the presents and Svetlana is taking a call, so it’s just the two of them.

“Um, Ian?” Yevgeny begins, as he turns away from the fountain.

“What’s up, bud?”

Instead of looking up at Ian, he focuses down on his sneakers swinging over the side. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course you can. You can ask me anything,” Ian says, wrapping his arm around Yev’s back. “What do you want to know?”

“Is, um, is my dad going to go away again?”

The question feels like a punch to Ian’s gut. “What? Why would you think that?”

Yevgeny shrugs and bows his head forward even more so that Ian can’t see his face. “I don’t know. I just—I just don’t want him to go back to that place. I want him to stay here. I know he can’t come to New York, but I want him to stay here, so I can visit him.”

“He’s not going back there, and he's definitely not leaving,” Ian assures him, hugging Yevgeny closer. “He’s so excited to have you back in his life, Yev. He loves you, and there’s no way he’s letting you go, okay?”

“Is Dad nice?” Yevgeny asks, finally meeting Ian’s eyes. “He seems nice. I mean, he’s nice to me and he’s nice to you. Mom says he’s nice too, even though they yell at each other a lot.”

“Your dad is very nice. He’s the nicest guy I know. Did someone tell you he wasn’t?”

Yevgeny shrugs again and bites at his bottom lip like a certain other Milkovich Ian knows. “No, it’s just—the kids at school were saying that only mean people go to prison, so my father must be mean. They said that prison is only for the bad guys, to keep them away from everyone else. That's what it's like on TV too, and in all the movies. The bad guys go to prison. But my dad doesn’t seem _bad_.”

It feels like a hole is opening up in Ian’s chest. For the first time, he realizes just how difficult this all must be for Yevgeny to understand. Children’s stories aren’t exactly bastions of nuance. They’re typically more concerned with good and evil and right and wrong than all those gray spaces in between. He’s sure Svetlana has tried to explain, but he can’t blame Yevgeny for letting the kids at school get to him. When he was in elementary school, he remembers overhearing his classmates laughing about what a loser Frank was. They joked that the Gallaghers were like rats, dirty and unwanted, always reproducing and impossible to kill. He remembers how angry he was at Frank for even existing, at Fiona for not making him leave, and at himself for being trash just like they said.

“There are a lot of bad people in prison, Yev,” Ian starts, carefully considering each word. He’s not sure he’s the right person for Yevgeny to be having this conversation with. He doesn’t want to overstep his bounds, but he’s afraid if he backs away from the question, it will give the kid the wrong idea. “But there are good people in there, too. Good people who made mistakes.”

“And Dad made a mistake?”

“Yes, your dad made a mistake. But he learned from it, and he got better. Prison isn’t just for keeping bad people away from good people. It can be for helping good people who made mistakes get better, so they never have to go back there again. And your dad’s never going back again, alright?” Ian taps his fingers under Yevgeny’s chin, lifting it up until their eyes meet. “Trust me, okay? Your dad is a good man, and he loves you.”

An adorable grin stretches across Yevgeny’s lips, revealing the small dimples in his cheeks. “And he loves you too, right?”

Ian hears himself gasp at the question. Answering it would almost _definitely_ be overstepping his bounds. He has no idea how Mickey wants to handle their relationship when it comes to Yevgeny. Thinking about it now, Ian realizes he probably should’ve just asked instead of waiting for Mickey to bring it up. “Is um—is that what your mom told you?”

“Mom says you’re my dad's best friend. That you have been since you guys were little.”

He supposes the description isn’t too far off. Aside from maybe Lip and Mandy, Mickey is the best friend he’s ever had, even if they’ve hated each other at times. “Yeah, your dad _is_ my best friend, and I love him very much.”

“And he loves you too?”

Knots start forming in Ian’s stomach. _I don’t know. I hope so._ “Yeah, sure,” he eventually says. “Best friends love each other, right?”

Yevgeny grins even wider. “So you won’t leave either?”

“No. I won’t leave. ‘Long as you want me around.”

He squeezes Yevgeny’s shoulder and kisses the top of his head. It feels like the fog that’s been hovering around him all day is starting to clear again, until he hears a familiar voice call out his name.

“Hey, Ian, is that you?"

He drops his arm from around Yevgeny, feeling his entire body tense up. Of all the days to run into his ex-boyfriend, of course this would be the day. That’s just classic Gallagher luck.

“Hi, Abe.” After successfully avoiding Abram Bell for months, there’s suddenly nowhere for Ian to run. In seconds, Abe is standing in front of him with an anxious smile, eyes darting back and forth from Ian to Yevgeny. He looks exactly the same as he had when Ian left—dark, sparkling eyes, windswept hair, paint-splattered jeans that purposefully stop above his ankles to show off his stupid boat shoes.

“I um—I’m just in the park drawing. It was just so nice out today, and you know how I like to come here.” He holds up his sketchpad, as if Ian needs to see proof to believe him. “Who’s your friend? A brother I’ve never met?” Abe bends at his knees and holds his hand out to Yevgeny. “Hey there, I’m Abe. Ian’s friend. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Yevgeny! But you can call me Yev, if you want. It's easier to say.” Yev takes his hand and shakes it eagerly. Despite all the panicked thoughts zooming around Ian’s brain, he still can’t help but be amused that two of the most guarded people he’s ever met have managed to have such a friendly son. “I’m Ian’s friend, too. You have really cool hair. Is it always like that?”

Abe lifts his hand and self-consciously drags it through the long mess of blond curls covering his head. “Thanks, man. Yeah, it’s always been like this, unfortunately. Some people tease me for it, you know. They like to say I look like a mop.”

“They’re probably just jealous,” Yev reasons. “I wish my hair was all curly like that. Or bright red like Ian’s. His hair is cool, too.”

Abe smirks and lets his eyes drift back over to Ian, lingering on his hair before dropping down to make eye contact. “Yeah, his hair is pretty cool.” Ian stares back, trying to remain calm while he frantically searches for a way to get rid of the guy before Mickey comes back. _This is Mickey’s day_ , Ian thinks again. _This is Mickey’s day, and I’m not going to ruin it with my shit. I can’t ruin it._ He wills himself to say something, anything, but it’s like his brain has short-circuited.

“Who the fuck is this?”

Ian winces and glances over to see Mickey approaching them. He stops at Ian’s side with the football nestled under one arm and the wrapped book balanced in the other. Yevgeny immediately springs up from the side of the fountain and grabs for the ball, cradling it in his arms like a newborn baby. “This is so awesome! Is this for me?” he asks. When Abe chuckles softly, Yev then adds, “Oh, and that’s just Ian’s friend, Dad. He’s nice.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Ian’s friend, huh?” Mickey turns to Ian. “Didn’t know you were inviting anyone.”

“Oh, no, no, I wasn’t invited,” Abe breaks in, before Ian can say anything. “Sorry, I didn’t uh—I didn’t mean to intrude or anything. I was just drawing over there,” he explains, pointing over his shoulder to a row of benches, “When I saw Ian and thought I’d come say hi. I’m Abe by the way.”

Abe holds out his hand again, and Mickey looks down at it like it might be explosive. Ian’s sure Mickey’s not going to go for it, but when Yevgeny makes another comment about Abe’s cool hair, Mickey clenches his jaw and grudgingly reaches out for the handshake. “Mickey.”

“Oh, the famous Mickey! It’s great to finally meet you,” Abe says. He sounds perfectly agreeable still, but Ian picks up on the notes of resentment hidden behind the words. “Ian’s told me a lot about you. Nice to finally put a face to the name.”

That’s a lie. The only reason Abe knows Mickey’s name is because he snooped around in Ian’s desk, but he’s still too thrown off by the surprise appearance to argue. It’s probably for the best that he’s being so pathetic anyways. Getting into a screaming match with his ex-boyfriend in front of his other ex-boyfriend and his son wouldn’t be his finest moment.

“Yeah, Ian’s mentioned you too,” Mickey says coolly. “But we’re actually kind of busy at the moment, in case that wasn’t _obvious_. So if you could just—”

“Sure, sure, I’ll leave you guys to it. Like I said, didn’t mean to intrude.” Abe shifts his weight between his feet and then meets Ian’s eyes again. “Could we just—can we please talk? Just for a minute, I swear. You haven’t been answering my calls, and I just—”

“Seriously?” Mickey snaps, glaring at Abe. “You’re gonna pull that shit?"

Yevgeny looks startled by Mickey’s harsh tone. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Yev,” Ian assures him, mercifully finding his voice again. “I’m just gonna go say goodbye to my friend real quick and then we can play some football all together, alright? Why don’t you and your dad get started without me, and I’ll join in when I get back."

If looks could kill, the one Mickey’s giving him now would send him plunging down to hell about a hundred times over. He wants to tell him he’s just trying to avoid causing a scene, but Mickey doesn’t look too interested in hearing whatever excuses Ian has. “Do what you gotta do, Gallagher,” is all he mutters, before leading Yevgeny away.

“Shit, Abe,” Ian starts, when the two of them are out of earshot.

“No, don’t you dare get pissed at me, Ian,” Abe hisses, the pleasant expression on his face instantly disappearing. “You just left me after my art show and never fucking talked to me again. Said it was done and never explained why. Then you sent your fucking brother over with my stuff. I must’ve called you a thousand times, and you haven’t answered once. If I show up to the coffee shop, you find a reason to go into the back. If I run into you on the street, you cross over to another one. If I didn’t still have a speck of pride left, I’d have shown up at your apartment by now. I _loved_ you, Ian, and you just walked away from me.”

_Classic Ian Gallagher_ , he thinks bitterly. “I told you why I was leaving.”

“Is that really all it was? The fucking painting? I’m sorry I didn’t ask.” The anger melts away from Abe’s voice until he just sounds sad, which only serves to make Ian feel like the biggest asshole who’s ever lived. “I’m so sorry, Ian. I didn’t mean anything by it. I thought you’d like it. I really did.”

Ian’s stomach twists, and shit, does he feel tired. Too tired for any of this. Abe’s not a bad guy, he never was. He wishes he could give the guy whatever closure he came over here looking for, but Ian can't think of what to say to make it better. He's never been very good with endings. Walking away has always been easier than trying to explain the mess that is his mind. “I can’t do this today, Abe. I’m sorry, I get why—I get why you’re upset, but I can’t today.”

“Are you two back together then?”

Ian bites the inside of his cheek and looks over his shoulder, grimacing when he catches Mickey staring at him. “Maybe?” he answers weakly. “I want to be."

“He’s certainly interesting, isn’t he?” Abe muses, looking past Ian. “Not like how I imagined him to be at all when I read the letters. Thought he’d be some giant, roided out thug with like a face tattoo or something.”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t assume things.”

“He’s pretty hot. Kind of grumpy though.”

“I don’t remember asking your opinion.”

Abe lets out a long sigh and drags his hand through his curls again. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he admits, shaking his head. “You never talked about what you were thinking while we were together, so I don’t know why I thought it’d be any different now.”

“I can’t—”

“You can’t today. _Right_.” Abe rolls his eyes. “This was a bad idea. I’ll leave you alone. I just—I want the best for you, Ian. You know that, right? It just seemed like you had so many bad memories of your childhood, so I don’t—”

“Mickey’s not the bad memories,” Ian snaps. “He’s the good ones.”

“Well, you would know better than me.” Abe sounds defeated as he utters the words, and Ian finds himself torn between consoling him and pushing him away. Instead, he just remains paralyzed in place, too exhausted to try either. “I’m sorry if I pushed you too hard, or if I wanted too much from you.”

“You didn’t. It’s just that—” He pauses and takes a deep breath. He’s too tired to come up with something nice and harmless to say, so he goes with the truth. “There's a lot of history there. I’m kind of in love with him. Pretty sure I’ve been in love with him since I was a fucking kid, and I probably never stopped. And now he’s back, and I want to make things right with him. I’m—I’m sorry I dragged you into my shit.”

Abe’s face softens until there’s something resembling a smile on his lips. “I’ve always liked the sad ones, you know,” Abe sighs. “They’re beautiful, but they never stay. You would think I’d have learned that by now. But thank you for actually telling me.” He clutches his sketchbook in front of his chest, like he’s subconsciously using it as a shield. “I’m not angry. No need to go running every time I pop up, okay? I’m not gonna go off on you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Ian offers the apology, slightly taken aback by how much he means it. It’s probably long past time he learn to leave a relationship without torching everything or avoiding the hard conversations that come after. “If you want to talk later, maybe that can happen. But today’s really important to me, and I have to get back to them.”

Abe nods. “The kid’s cute.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“The guy’s cute too,” he adds, with a wink that looks forced. “Good luck with everything, Ian.”

“Yeah, uh—you too.” Ian flinches when Abe abruptly pulls him into a hug. All he can think about during the brief embrace is that he hopes Mickey isn’t still watching and reading too much into this, but he returns the gesture. He owes Abe that much, he supposes. The poor guy never even stood a chance, not when Ian’s heart already belonged to someone else.

 

* * *

 

The game of catch is still going strong when Ian returns, though he notices the birthday cake wrapping paper is now sticking out of a nearby trashcan and the dragon book is carefully tucked into the top of Yev’s backpack. “Did he like the book?” he asks, as he comes up beside Svetlana.

Svetlana links their arms together and leans into him. “Of course he like book. Very excited. It is next in series of silly knight stories he loves. He wanted to start reading it right away, but I convince him to play with the sports ball. No use wasting this sun on books.”

“Good,” Ian says, smiling. “Mick was worried.”

“Yes, is hard to understand, I guess,” she says. “I never had time for reading either, and these noble hero stories make no sense to me, but he likes them. Alex likes them too. They are always going on and on about this nonsense. Bores me to death.”

“Everything still going well with him?”

“Yes, he is at home with my Inna. Man who watches baby without bitching is good man.”

“You can bring her with you next time, you know,” Ian tells her. “I’d love to meet her. The pictures you sent were beautiful. She looks just like you.”

“I have new ones!” she exclaims, digging into her purse to pull out her cell phone. “She has more hair now, looks less like little boy.”

She holds up the phone to Ian, and he chuckles. “No one’s gonna mistake her as a boy with that pink, flowery headband on.”

When she swipes her thumb across the screen again, a new picture of Yevgeny holding the baby pops up. He’s grinning and looking down at her like she’s the sun. “I love this one. No sibling jealousy, huh? Look at that.”

“No, he is very sweet with her. Loves her very much, always looking out for her,” she says proudly. “And ex-husband is very good with Yev, yeah? I thought he’d be more—what’s the word? More—more _awkward_.”

Ian looks up at the pair of them again. They’re laughing about something now, and Mickey’s eyes are all crinkled up. It’s strange to see him look so happy and unguarded while they’re surrounded by people. It used to be Mickey only looked like that when they were tucked safely away together, where no one could see him and accuse him of being weak.

“Yeah, he’s really good with him,” Ian agrees. “Thank you for coming down. It means a lot. To both of us.”

“Is nothing,” she says, putting away her phone and patting his hand affectionately. “Thank you for helping all these years. Was nice but not necessary.”

“It _was_ necessary,” Ian sighs. “It wasn’t enough though.”

“Enough for _what_?” she huffs, frowning at him. “You are not first teenage boy to have bad break up. Or to have mental breakdown either. You spend too much time being mad at yourself, Howdy Doody.” She runs her fingertip under his one of his eyes and then taps the tip of his nose. “Stop that. Will just make you old faster. Don’t go ruining that pretty face with wrinkles.”

 

* * *

 

The day is winding down. Families are starting to pack up their things and pile into their cars to go home. Their little mishmash of a family is doing the same, though Yevgeny is refusing to let go of his new book and put it in his bag like Svetlana wants. After some arguing, she gives up and he holds it proudly against his chest, the dragons still bright in the fading sun. They agree to meet each other at a restaurant just down the street for dinner and then go their separate ways.

Mickey and Ian walk toward Ian’s car in silence. They usually walk close to each other these days, letting their arms brush up against each other’s, but Ian’s careful to leave some space today. Mickey hadn't exactly been hostile after Abe showed up, but he's also barely looked Ian’s way since.

“Ay, can we talk for a second?” Mickey asks, when they’ve reached the car. “Before we head over there?”

Ian flinches at the request. As much as he wants to know what's going on in Mickey's head, part of him had hoped he'd wait until after dinner. Reluctantly, Ian nods his head. It had been such a wonderful day. Seeing Svetlana and Yevgeny again and seeing Mickey look so happy is what he needed to lift his spirits, but he’s afraid it’s all about to come crashing down.

“Look, I had no idea he was going to be there today,” Ian blurts out first, feeling like he’s about to burst with dread. “You have to believe me. And I just talked to him because I didn’t want him to freak out and ruin everything, okay? There’s nothing there anymore.”

“I ain’t mad at you, Ian.”

Ian raises an eyebrow. “You’re not?”

“Nah, sorry if I was kind of an ass after. Just wasn’t expecting it. I got a jealous streak, you know that. But I could tell you weren't into it,” he laughs softly. “He’s uh—he’s a good-looking guy though, huh? Your ex. Probably should’ve expected that.”

Ian shrugs. “I guess he is.”

“Seemed nice.”

“Yeah, he is.”

Mickey bites the corner of his lip and scuffs his shoe against the grass. Ian can tell he wants to say more, but instead of adding anything else about Abe, he asks, “So, you think it’s going well? With the kid? He seems happy, right?”

“It’s going amazing, Mick,” Ian answers sincerely. “Pretty sure I’ve never seen him so happy. He’s so thrilled you’re back.”

A blush spreads up Mickey’s neck and across his cheeks, as he scratches at the back of his head. “What uh—what were you two talking about before that guy came over? I could see you when I was walking back. Seemed kind of serious.”

“Oh.” Ian hesitates for a moment, worried that Mickey isn’t going to appreciate Ian talking to his son about such sensitive topics without permission. But he knows he has to tell the truth. “He asked me if you were going to go away again, to prison,” he admits. “And I told him you wouldn’t,” he adds quickly. “And he sort of asked me about why you were in prison, and I told him that you made a mistake, but that you learned from it. I kept it vague. It's not really my place or anything I know, but he asked, so. And I told him you were a good man and that you love him. Think he was just nervous to ask you himself.”

Mickey blinks and takes a deep breath. “He believe you?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“That’s, uh, that’s good. Thanks. Thanks for saying that.”

“It’s the truth,” Ian says simply. “He also um—he also asked if you loved me.”

“ _What_?” Mickey’s voice rises, and Ian instinctively takes a step back. “The fuck? What’s Svetlana been telling him?”

“That’s what I asked him. She just told him we were best friends. He doesn’t—”

“And what did _you_ tell him?”

There’s an accusatory tone to the question that pisses him off and breaks the part of him that’s been trying to hold back all day. He knows the situation is more complicated now than it was back then, but he hates the idea that he’s going to be a secret again. “Fuck you, Mickey.”

Ian turns to march toward the car, but Mickey catches his arm and tugs him back. “Ay, don’t do that. Answer the fucking question.”

“I told him you were my best friend and that I love you because we’re friends,” Ian snaps back, shaking Mickey’s hand off of him. “That alright with you? Or is that too gay?”

“Oh, shit, Ian,” Mickey sighs, looking considerably less upset than a moment ago. “It’s not—it’s not the gay thing. I mean, that’s probably gonna be an awkward fucking conversation and I’m not fucking looking forward to it or anything, but if he doesn’t know it by now, he’s gonna figure it out soon. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already overheard his fucking mom on the phone talking about us rubbing our dicks together or whatever it is she thinks we do.”

“Then what is it?”

Mickey drags a hand down his face. “I don’t know, man. I just—I just don’t want him gettin’ ideas or anything, like I said earlier. I don’t want him thinking we’re, like, together if—I just don’t wanna disappoint him if it goes to shit or whatever. I don’t wanna fuck this up again, with him. I let him down before, getting thrown in prison. I gotta put him first.”

“I never asked you not to.” There’s a hard edge to Ian’s voice that he doesn’t totally intend to be there. He doesn’t want to be angry. He understands why Mickey’s freaked out. This is all moving fast, probably too fast, but Ian’s not sure he knows how to slow down.

“I _know_ that,” Mickey groans, clearly frustrated. “I just want to be sure before I tell him too much, alright? I don’t get why—”

“Sure about me?” His voice cracks a little, betraying that he’s on the verge of tears. He wishes he could have this conversation without taking everything so personally, but he’s afraid. He’s afraid of getting Mickey back, of having his old family back, only to lose them again. He’s afraid Mickey’s going to suddenly realize giving Ian another chance was a huge mistake. “Because I fucked everything up before?”

“Ian, no.” Mickey raises his arms like he’s about to touch him, but they ultimately fall back to his sides, as he looks over his shoulder.

Ian knows he’s checking to see whether Yevgeny is still behind them, that he doesn’t want him to see them together looking anything like a couple. That one quick look breaks his heart. He doesn’t know why he thought he could have it all back so easily. Just because he’s been pining for it for years doesn’t mean he deserves it, not after what he did. Mickey’s just being smart. He knows who Ian is, knows he’s crazy, unreliable, unpredictable. It all makes perfect sense, to keep him at a distance, but Ian can’t stop himself from feeling hurt anyways.

“I’ll go,” he sniffs, trying to hold back his tears so he doesn’t make more of a spectacle out of himself than he already has. “Go and get dinner with them. I’ll drop you off, and we can talk later. I don’t wanna ruin everything. If you want me to go to breakfast tomorrow, just text me.”

“Okay, apparently nothing I said came out right if you’re trying to take off on me,” Mickey grumbles, reaching for him again and grabbing his elbows this time. “Why are you upset? Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

_Because I want everything from you._ He swallows down the words, determined not to push for declarations he doesn’t deserve. He’s doing the exact thing he didn’t want to do today, fucking everything up with his bullshit. “Don’t worry about me. Just go be with your son. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, like fuck you’re fine,” Mickey scoffs. “Just talk to me.”

“We can talk later,” Ian says, shaking his head and backing away. “Let’s just—”

Mickey cuts him off by shooting forward, grabbing the back of his neck, and crashing their lips together. Ian’s so caught off guard that he starts to stagger backwards, but Mickey just holds him tighter. The kiss is chaste, nothing that would be too out of place at a family park, but it makes Ian feel like he’s caught fire. When Mickey pulls away, Ian follows after his warmth, burying his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck. “I’m sorry.”

“Why’re you sorry?”

“For being scared.”

Mickey tangles his fingers into Ian’s hair and kisses his temple. “I’m sorry too. Just—just don’t walk away from me like that, all angry and shit, okay? Kinda freaks me out. I don’t wanna do that anymore. I wanna talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Where’d all your words suddenly go, Chatty Cathy?”

“I feel tired, Mick,” Ian finally confesses. “So fucking tired. I have for a few days now. Made an appointment with my doctor for tomorrow afternoon just in case, you know, but I didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it. Especially not today. I just wanted today to be perfect.”

“Jesus.” Mickey grips him tighter. “Well, you made the appointment yourself. That’s a good sign, right? That’s good.”

Ian can only nod against Mickey’s shoulder.

“Alright then, frowny face,” Mickey says gently, rubbing a circle into the space between his shoulder blades. “You up for getting dinner with us then? Or you really wanna go home? It’s cool if you wanna go home.”

“Do you want me there?” he asks, voice muffled against Mickey’s collar.

“’Course I do. The kid does too. Practically in love with you.”

Ian finally pulls away, taking a deep breath and wiping the remaining tears from under his eyes. “He loves you too.”

“Ain’t saying he doesn’t. Loves us both, and I’m glad he does.” Mickey smiles at him, placing his hand on Ian’s cheek. “Are you alright?”

If he’s being completely honest with himself, Ian still doesn’t feel alright. He doesn’t feel fine. But he does feel better, and that’s enough for now. All he really wants is to be with his family. “Yeah, I’m fine, let’s go to dinner. Don’t want to make Svetlana wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Mickey is up again next.


	12. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He just needs to hear Ian promise it’s real this time.

Five days have gone by since Yevgeny went back to New York with his mother. Mickey has spent every one of those five days endlessly and futilely searching for an apartment online. There are plenty of nice places in nice neighborhoods available, but they’re all so far out of the price range of an ex-con bus boy that he thinks he must be some kind of masochist to keep putting himself through this.

The thought of never finding a new place and getting out of this shitty house is starting to stress him out so badly he wakes up with stomachaches most mornings. He doesn’t blame Svetlana for not wanting to let Yevgeny sleep over here though. Just last night, he was woken up in the middle of the night by the familiar screams and screeches and pops of a drive-by shooting. This isn’t a place he wants Yevgeny to see either, with its crumbling, hole-filled walls and toxic history, but finding a suitable home of his own without some kind of divine miracle is looking more and more impossible with every real estate website he clicks on.

The phone buzzes in his hand as he’s scrolling through more apartments he’ll never able to afford. He’s relieved to have an excuse to click out of the fucking site with all of its stupid, fucking impossibly priced homes.

_[Firecrotch]: morning Mick :) we still on for 11?_

Things have been bordering on awkward with him and Ian since the day at the park, but the text still brings a smile to his face. He quickly types out an affirmative reply and then collapses back on to his bed, throwing his phone to the side. It’s still early, so he hopes he can sneak in at least another hour of sleep without thinking about expensive apartments or Ian or Svetlana or his son or anything else before he has to leave.

Of course, it only takes his mind a few minutes of silence to stubbornly wander back to all of those things. He knows Ian’s apartment is an option if Yevgeny were to visit overnight. Svetlana and Ian have both suggested it to him, but Mickey’s managed to avoid giving either of them a straight answer so far. Even just considering it makes Mickey feel uneasy. When he tries to pictures how it would play out—he and Ian making Yev breakfast in his tiny little kitchen, watching television together on the couch in the connected living room, walking down the street together to go to the diner or the park, maybe even eating dinner with the Gallagher family—it all seems so domestic and committed. There would be no hiding from it then. Yevgeny would figure them out. He might be young, but he’s not stupid.

The kid would probably have questions, and that’s what scares him the most. How could he possibly answer them when he has no idea what he and Ian actually are to each other at this point? _Hey, son, Ian here’s my ex-boyfriend who I hang out with and occasionally jack off_ wouldn’t exactly work. They’ve been hanging around—or _dating_ , as Ian calls it—for nearly a month and talking more in the span of that month than they probably did in the entirety of their relationship before that, but neither of them has attempted to define it. It’s worrying him that Ian hasn’t pushed for any sort of commitment from him yet, almost as much as it’s worrying him that they _still_ haven’t had sex. _I want to do things right this time,_ Ian will say, before things go too far. _I just don’t want to rush things._  

The sentiment is fine, he supposes. From what he’s seen on television and in movies, that’s a thing people apparently do sometimes—wait to have sex. It’s never been much of a priority to anyone he actually knows, but Mickey thinks he could come around to the idea if he could stop obsessing over whether Ian’s keeping him at arm’s length for other reasons. They’ve never been great at communicating, but they always made sense when it came to sex. Without sex, he feels adrift. He can feel himself falling for Ian again, falling hard and fast, especially after seeing him and Yevgeny together. It scares him to think that Ian might not feel the same way or might suddenly realize Mickey isn’t what he wants and leave again.

He could probably just ask, but every time he considers it, the words die on his tongue. If he could just get Ian to stop acting like some kind of gentleman, he thinks he could figure it out on his own. Even early in their relationship, when Ian was always trying to hide his feelings for Mickey’s benefit, Mickey could tell what he was really thinking when they were fucking. Reverent hands, soft lips ghosting over the back of his neck, and those beautiful little noises he would make when Mickey would push back against him just right left no doubt in Mickey’s mind that he meant something to Ian Gallagher, even if neither of them could say it.

Just thinking about those noises—quite grunts and tentative, whispered words of endearment against his bare skin—starts to get him hard. He groans and turns over in his bed, trying to will away the arousal and get some damn sleep. But when his half-hard cock presses down into the mattress, he can’t help but thrust forward, chasing the pressure.

As he grips his sheets, he can almost feel soft, red hair threading through his fingers and hot, pale skin under his palms. When he closes his eyes, he can see Ian leaning over him, arms flexed and hands splayed across the bed on either side of Mickey. Soon, all he can see is green eyes and pale freckles and cocky smirks, as he trails his hand down his stomach and past the waistband of his sweatpants.

It’s not long until he comes into his own hand, imagining Ian holding him down and swallowing the moan that escapes him with a searing kiss. He lets himself bask in the release for a moment and wonders if maybe now he’ll be able to turn off his brain and get some sleep, but the thought is swiftly shot down by the buzzing of his phone from the nightstand.

_[Firecrotch]: Great! Leaving work soon_

Mickey mutters a couple of obscenities under his breath, as he realizes he’s now sweaty as fuck and has only about a half hour until he has to leave. Grudgingly, he hauls himself out of bed and saunters over to the shower, his skin still tingling just from fantasizing about Ian’s hands on him.

As the water washes over his skin, he can’t help but look down at the messy, misspelled name still inked on his chest. The skin is slightly raised under his fingertips. There are other tattoos keeping it company now—a skull on his ribs his brother insisted would be badass and eight slashes across the back of his shoulder marking the eight years he thought he’d be behind bars. They’re all from that first year in the prison, and they’re all as shitty looking as the next. And then there’s the jagged scar on his side his father left him with. It’s thick and dark and violent. Maybe it’s for the best they haven’t had sex yet, that Ian hasn’t seen the pattern of hideous mistakes branded permanently into his skin.

Ian’s gotten close to seeing them a couple of times. But after the second time Mickey recoiled after Ian tried to lift his shirt, he hasn’t tried again. Mickey finds himself torn now, between wanting to find a way keep them covered forever and wanting Ian to see every part of him and just maybe, somehow want him anyways. 

 

* * *

 

They’re supposed to be going to lunch before Mickey’s shift later in the day, but Ian’s still in the shower when he gets to his place, taking his sweet ass time getting ready.

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be out soon!” Ian calls, after Mickey lets himself in and raps his knuckles on the bathroom door. “Make yourself at home!” He rolls his eyes and, after confirming that Lip is, thankfully, nowhere to be found, plops down on the couch, turns on the television, and tries not to think about Ian wet and naked just one room over.

He’s seen Ian stripped down to nothing and knows he looks exactly as good as he always did. He’s all smooth, lean muscle and, aside from that stupid eagle tattoo that Mickey’s grown oddly fond of, his skin is perfect and unmarred. It doesn’t seem fair that he still looks so good when Mickey’s all sharp bones and smudgy, ill-advised prison tattoos. The ones on his knuckles desperately need a touch up, and he wishes so badly he could burn _Galager_ from his skin forever, but it’s hard to justify those expenses while he’s looking for a new place to live for his son.

He shifts on the couch and crosses his arms, so his hands are tucked under his armpits and the _FUCK U-UP_ is out of his sight. He spends almost as much time at this apartment as he does at his own house these days, but he still doesn’t feel totally comfortable here, especially without Ian at his side. It’s been harder than he thought to convince himself he actually belongs here. 

“Hey, you.” The unexpected press of lips against Mickey’s cheek causes him to nearly jump off the couch. Mickey yelps and turns to glare at him, but Ian just chuckles lightly in response. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Didn’t fuckin’ scare me,” he grumbles. “You don’t sneak up on an ex-con, man.” Mickey tries to sound casual, but his heart has started beating so fast he feels a little dizzy. Ian is standing just behind the couch and wearing only a towel slung low around his hips. Every line of his body is plainly visible, and his hair looks like fire under the sun coming through the windows. A drop of water running down his neck catches Mickey’s attention, and he feels a familiar tug low in his gut when it settles in the dip of his collarbone.

“Yeah, okay, tough guy,” Ian teases. “Sorry I’m running late. Just let me throw some clothes on.”

It’s a reasonable request, but Mickey doesn’t want to let Ian throw some clothes on. In fact, he can’t think of anything more tragic than Ian throwing some clothes on in that moment. “Hey, wait up a second!” He hops up from the sofa before he can talk himself out of it. He’s tired of waiting and hiding. He’s tired of being afraid. He’s already done too much of that for one lifetime. He needs to know if Ian will still make those sweet noises, will still touch him like he’s something to be treasured and not just some dirty, useless thug, even with the marks on his body. He wants to know if he still fits in Ian’s life.

“What’s the hurry, Gallagher?” He positions himself between Ian and his bedroom door and then reaches forward to rest his hands on Ian’s waist, letting his thumbs glide over his damp, bare skin. “We could just eat here, you know.”

The smirk that forms on Ian’s lips makes his cock strain against his jeans. God, he looks so good like this. Tall and confident and perfect. The sun is lighting up the freckles that dust his broad shoulders, and Mickey reaches up to touch them. The way Ian’s muscles tense and then relax under his fingertips spurs Mickey on and soon he’s letting his hands roam everywhere, trying to recommit every inch of this man’s body to his memory.

He moves closer and runs his tongue along the ridge of Ian’s collarbone, capturing the lone water drop that inspired all of this. Ian gasps at the contact and finally touches him, slipping his hands under Mickey’s t-shirt and running his nails softly down Mickey’s back.

“I don’t think I have any food here,” Ian breathes against his lips, just before Mickey catches them with his own. There’s nothing innocent about the kiss. It’s immediately hungry, with searching tongues and clashing teeth. Ian’s got one hand wrapped loosely around his neck and the other digging into his hipbone, as he pushes Mickey back against the wall. Their hips press together when Mickey collides with it, and Mickey groans into Ian’s mouth. He places one of his hands on the center of Ian’s chest and knocks him back just enough that he can start undoing his own belt with the other. “Yes, get these off,” Ian rasps in approval, as his hands join Mickey’s.

The jeans quickly fall to the floor and are kicked aside. Ian’s on him again before Mickey can even catch his breath, running his hands down Mickey’s sides and then grasping his ass. He pulls Mickey forward so that their growing erections push up against each other. And, fuck, does it feel good. So good that Mickey doesn’t even realize that Ian’s towel has slipped off until his hands start wandering again and find nothing but bare skin beneath them.

“Fuck,” he gasps, as Ian grinds forward, breathing heavily against Mickey’s temple. Mickey leans back just enough that he can reach between them and wrap his hand around the base of Ian’s cock. It’s as long and heavy and fucking beautiful as when they first started fucking. Watching his hand glide up and down its length is enough to make his mouth water. He wants to drop to his knees right there in the living room. He wants to feels his mouth stretched around it, wants to feel the weight of it against his tongue. He wants so much, but Ian’s got too firm a grip on him to move.

So he keeps stroking, squeezing the head and then running his hand back down again. “Fuck, I want you,” he huffs out. “Ian, fuck, _Ian_. Please.” 

Ian moans at the sound of his name and thrusts up into his hand. “Fuck, want you too. So bad. Take this off,” he demands, yanking at the hem of his shirt. “Get this the fuck off. I want to see you. All of you.”

There’s a dark, commanding tone to Ian’s voice. The sound of it would usually make Mickey feel like fireworks are going off in his gut. He loves yielding control to Ian in the bedroom most of the time, loves not having to monitor his every thought and action and just feel. But, for some reason, those words suddenly make him feel like he’s collapsing in on himself. The need he felt just moments ago mutates into panic. Ian’s too close and his grip too tight. Mickey worries his heart might pound right out of his fucking chest if he doesn’t get away.

He had been so determined to show Ian everything, for better or worse, but now the idea of reminding him of that fucking tattoo is too much for Mickey to stomach. It’s all overwhelming—their heavy breathing, Ian’s fingertips digging into his skin, the weight of Ian’s body pressing down onto his. He starts to struggle against Ian’s hold, frantic in his need to put some space between them. As soon as Ian realizes something’s up, he backs off and holds his hands in the air.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I—are you okay? What’s wrong?” Ian’s cheeks are bright red and his eyes wide. There’s a kicked puppy sort of look on his face that makes Mickey feel even more nauseous than he already had. Remembering that expression is going to make him feel like a douchebag later, but all he can focus on right now is breathing.

He grabs the back of the couch and leans forward. He squeezes his eyes shut, as he forces himself to take long, deep breaths. Behind him, Ian stays quiet and still.

“Mickey, what happened?” Ian asks softly, only when Mickey finally straightens himself out and starts breathing normally again. He reaches down and wraps the discarded towel tightly back around his waist. “Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry if—”

Mickey shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. No, man. Not you. It’s not you. This is all me, trust me. You didn’t—” He pauses, not knowing how to talk about the clusterfuck of thoughts and fears he’s still trying to sift through. But even if he can’t explain yet, he wants Ian to know it’s not his fault. “I’m just—fuck, I freaked out. I just freaked out. It’s nothing you did.”

“Okay.” Ian moves forward, like he wants to touch Mickey, but he seems to think better of it and quickly backs up again. His brow is furrowed, like he has no idea what to do. Mickey wishes he could help them both and just say what he needs, but even he isn’t sure of what that would be. “Okay,” Ian repeats, pulling at his still-wet hair. “Let me uh—okay, just let me just get dressed and we’ll talk or go eat or something.”

The bedroom door closes. Mickey pounds his fist on the back of the couch once and then twice, feeling like a coward. After coming out to his violent, homophobic father in a crowded South Side bar and surviving years in prison with a dude’s name tattooed on his chest, he didn’t think anything could send him into a panic like this anymore. Maybe this no sex thing hasn’t been all Ian’s idea like Mickey thought. Maybe Ian can sense Mickey’s holding something back. That ginger asshole could always see more than Mickey wanted him to.

Mickey finishes pulling on his jeans and doing up his belt just as Ian emerges from his room, now fully dressed. They stare at each for a long moment, as the silence hangs heavy between them. Ian opens his mouth a few times, but he doesn’t end up speaking. Finally, he just ducks his head and walks toward the kitchen. When he has his back turned to Mickey, he says, “Looks like Lip actually did some grocery shopping the other day, so we’ve got options. How about grilled cheese and tomato soup? You used to like that, right? Or we could still go out, if that’d be—if you want to do that."

“That um—sounds good. The grilled cheese, I mean.” Everything feels awkward now, but Mickey is determined not to flee from it. In the time it takes Ian to make the sandwiches and heat up some soup, he hopes he might actually be able to work out what he wants to say.

“Cool.” Ian gets to work straight away, still not turning back to look at him.

It hurts a little, but Mickey’s just glad he’s not kicking him out. They both had a bad habit of shutting down and running off when things got hard when they were younger, but Mickey doesn’t want to do that anymore. He remembers Ian trying to take off after the visit with Yevgeny and how sure he had felt that he couldn’t allow that happen. Even though Ian has clearly gotten his life together, there’s still a part of him that worries if he lets Ian walk away again, he’ll just never come back this time.

Mickey heads back to the couch, trying to pull himself together so he doesn’t radiate embarrassment and confusion when Ian joins him. When he settles back in and goes to reach for the remote, he notices a fancy invitation sitting on top of the end table. For a moment, he’s too distracted by the splashes of color at the top to read the words. But when he does, he feels his stomach drop.

“Ay, what’s this?”

Ian sets their plates down on the coffee table and then squints at what Mickey’s holding up. “Oh, uh, that’s an invitation.”

“Yeah, no shit. I ain’t blind.”

He can tell Ian wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. “It’s for an art exhibition they’re having at a gallery near the campus. Abe got asked to show his work at it, I guess. He didn’t call or anything. That just showed up in our mailbox the other day.”

“You going?”

Ian snorts and leans back in the armchair. The food sits ignored on the table. “Nah, I meant to throw that out. I never liked going to those things. The food’s usually weird, and I don’t really get any of it. I mean, some of it’s cool, sure. But some of it makes zero fucking sense to me.”

“The art?”

“Yeah, the art.”

“Says there’s champagne though,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “What kind of South Side boy turns down free booze?”

“Not really the kind of place you want to get drunk.”

Ian isn’t meeting his eyes, which just makes Mickey more nervous about this pretentious piece of paper he’s got in his hand. He starts thinking about that stupid curly-haired fucker at the park with his bright smile and clean skin and annoyingly charming paint-stained pants. He starts thinking about how good he and Ian had looked next to each other.

“We should go.” The words just kind of slip out. He isn’t sure why he says them. The last place he wants to spend a Friday night is at a fucking art gallery, trying to talk about shit he couldn’t care less about and where everyone is sure to think he’s just there to case the place. But he can’t seem to make himself shut up. Images of Abe and Ian together keep flashing in his mind. “I don’t have work tomorrow. We could meet up after your shift and—”

“Wait, you want to go to the show?” Ian blurts out, eyes wide. “You want to go to my ex-boyfriend’s art show?” he adds, speaking more slowly, like he can’t believe the words are actually coming out his mouth. When Mickey nods, Ian’s jaw falls open. “Who are you and what have you done with Mickey Milkovich?”

Mickey shrugs, feeling oddly defensive. He can understand why Ian would be alarmed by him willingly agreeing to go to an art show, but he’s worried part of the reaction is coming from Ian not wanting to bring him into that setting. That Ian doesn’t think he’s good enough. “So what if I want to go? What’s the big fucking deal?”

“It’s not a big deal—I just—” Ian’s thought trails off, as he shakes his head. “I just— _why_? I’m telling you, these things aren’t a good time.”

“Dunno, somethin’ I haven’t done before, I guess. The kid’s a nerd. He might be into this kind of shit, you know? Might be good to get some culture or whatever.” That’s a lie. Mickey doesn’t give a shit about _culture_ , but he can’t exactly say he’s currently a flailing ball of insecurities hurling himself into a situation he’s most definitely going to hate. It’s not like he’s crazy or jealous or anything. He just wants to see how Ian acts around the guy. He just wants to see if he’s been building this guy up in his head, or if he really is as good-looking as Mickey remembers.

Ian nods but doesn’t look anywhere close to convinced by the answer. “Um—if you really want to go then I guess we can.”

“Good. It’s a date.”

Ian raises an eyebrow and takes a slow bite from his grilled cheese. He’s staring at Mickey now, eyes narrowed slightly. “You kind of have to dress up for these things.”

“What? You think I don’t got nice clothes?” 

“Didn’t say that, Mick,” Ian sighs. “Just a heads up.”

It’s then Mickey realizes how tired Ian looks, and a different kind of panic seizes him. “How are you feeling?” he asks, scooting down the couch, so they’re closer to each other. “The meds adjustment working out okay?” During his appointment, Ian’s doctor had decided to make some small modifications to Ian’s meds. It didn’t seem like a big deal, to Mickey at least. From what he’s read online, that’s fairly normal, but Ian hadn’t seemed happy about it.

“Yeah, I think so,” Ian answers. “I’ve been having some seriously fucked up dreams though, which is messing with my sleep. But the doctor said that should go away in a few weeks. I knew it could be a side effect, but it’s never been this bad before.” Ian takes another bite of his sandwich but then grimaces and throws the rest back down on to the plate. “Been having some less than pleasant stomach issues too. But I seem to have that reaction to basically everything they put me on, so whatever. Fuck it. Bring on the diarrhea.”

All of his own problems melt away when Ian’s face scrunches up the way it always does when he’s upset but doesn’t want to appear upset. Suddenly, he can’t be bothered to worry about stupid tattoos and Ian’s obnoxiously gorgeous ex, not when Ian looks like that. “Hey, man, it’s gonna be fine.” Mickey pats the empty cushion next to him. “Come over here.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Jesus, just get over here.”

Ian smiles and sits next to him, leaning his head against Mickey’s shoulder. “So how was your morning?”

Mickey gladly takes advantage of the change of subject. “Spent most of it looking at apartments. Shit’s expensive around here.”

“You’re looking for a new place? Since when?”

_Shit._ Mickey feels bad for not telling him earlier, but it’s not easy for him to talk about something he’s probably going to fail miserably at. What’s the point of even bringing it up if he’s just going to end up stuck in that same old house in the end? But Ian’s been so open with him about his health, he feels like he has to give something back. “Yeah, well, Svet doesn’t want the kid staying at my house, and I figure I gotta get outta that shithole eventually. One bad storm, and that roof will probably fuckin’ cave in.”

“Anything promising?”

“Hah, fuck no. Nothin’ at fucking all. Ain’t easy being an impoverished bus boy with a criminal record, I guess.”

“Well, there’s gotta be something. We can look together,” Ian says, as he nuzzles closer to him.

Mickey feels his body tense up. The hand that had been rubbing Ian’s shoulder freezes in place. A moment later, Ian sits up straight and then removes himself from Mickey’s side completely, standing to pace in front of the kitchen instead. “That came out wrong, alright?” Ian mutters, frowning. “I just meant that I could help you look. No need to freak the fuck out. I’m not fucking proposing.”

“Ay, I didn’t say shit.”

“You didn’t _need_ to say shit. I know what you’re thinking,” Ian spits back. “What are we doing here, Mick? What is _this_?”

The question knocks the breath out of him. He can only stare back at Ian, lost for how to answer. As strong as his feelings still are for Ian, he’s not totally sure if he’s ready to dive back into a relationship with him yet. It’s already proving to be the same old minefield it always was, where one careless word or action is enough to rip open old wounds and anxieties. He has his own life now, one that won’t come crumbling down if Ian were to leave again, and he likes it that way. He has a son to think about and a decent job he doesn’t want to screw up. He wants to believe Ian has changed, that he’s stopped running, but it’s not easy.

“What uh—what d’you mean?” Mickey asks pathetically.

Ian clenches his jaw and stares down at the floor. “Fuck it,” he says, scuffing his shoes over the rug. “Forget I asked.”

Ian’s voice sounds calm, but the crestfallen look on his face betrays him. Pain flares in Mickey’s chest. He wants to pull Ian close to him again and kiss him until that fucking look is gone forever. He wishes he could explain. He wishes he could just fucking say what he’s thinking—that he loves Ian, that he wants everything with him, but he needs to know it’s real this time. He just needs to hear Ian promise it’s real this time.

“You got to get to work soon, right?”

Mickey looks down at his cell phone and sighs. He should call out sick, so he doesn’t have to leave things like this. It’d be the first time since he started working there and he doubts Sean or Debbie would hold it against him, but he can’t afford to let the money go. Not when so much rides on it now. “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay, well, uh, I’ll see you then?” Ian’s leaning against the kitchen counter now, still looking down at his shoes. “You really want to go to that thing tomorrow?”

“The art show?” Ian nods. _Fuck no, of course not,_ he thinks. “Yeah,” he says instead, because apparently his brain and his fucking mouth are no longer on speaking terms. “I’ll try to look presentable, so I don’t embarrass you.” He attempts to make it sound like a joke, but it falls flat and Ian just winces in response. “Maybe it’ll be fun.”

“Okay,” Ian sighs, looking more than a little doubtful about that. “Want me to pick you up?”

“You don’t have to, man. I can take—”

“I’ll pick you up,” Ian interjects. “Make it more like a date. How’s seven?”

“Sure, okay, that works.” Mickey starts gathering his things and then puts on his coat. Ian is very purposefully still not looking at him, but Mickey can’t bear to just walk out the door. “Hey,” he whispers, as he walks over and grabs Ian’s hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Mickey dips his head and forces Ian to meet his eyes before pressing a kiss to his lips. To his relief, Ian returns it. This kiss is slow and cautious and a little unsure.

“Yeah,” Ian says, when they break apart. He squeezes Mickey’s elbow and presses another kiss to the top his head. “We’ll go get us some culture.”

 

* * *

 

The best Mickey can manage is a pair of dark, recently washed jeans and a black button-up shirt that’s way too big on him now. The nicest shoes he has are still plenty scuffed up and the sole of one is beginning to peel off at the toe. It’s not the ideal outfit for attending the ex-boyfriend of his ex-boyfriend’s art show, he thinks, as he observes himself in the mirror, but it will have to do.

There’s a knock on the door promptly at seven, because Ian Gallagher is nothing if not punctual. By the time Mickey tears himself away from the mirror and walks into the living room, Ian has already let himself in. To Mickey’s surprise, he’s not all dressed up like he thought he’d be. Instead, he’s wearing a worn out pair of gray sweatpants and a flannel shirt with a shitty band t-shirt underneath.

“Ay, why’d you tell me I had to get all dressed up for this shit if you’re just gonna show up looking like a fuckin’ hobo?”

“You look nice,” Ian says, as he tosses his coat over the back of the couch. “I remember this shirt,” he adds, stepping closer to run his fingers over the buttons.

“Doesn’t answer my question, Firecrotch.”

“Relax, I’ve got a change of clothes in the car,” Ian sighs. “I just—”

“Why in the car?”

“Because I’m really hoping I can talk you out of going to this stupid thing.”

Ian looks like he's about to say something else, but Mickey cuts him off with a quick shove to the chest. Shame settles over him swiftly and brutally. “Fuck you, Gallagher,” he barks out, walking away and holding up his middle finger as he goes.

“Wait, why the fuck are you mad at me?” Ian shouts back, following after him. Before Mickey can get to his room, Ian grabs his arm and spins him roughly back around. Mickey tries to shove him again, but Ian pushes forward and pins him against the wall. “Stop acting like an asshole and tell me why you’re mad.”

Mickey tries to push him off again, but Ian just pins him back more firmly. It should probably piss him off, but Mickey feels a fire building in his gut. “You embarrassed of me?” he asks, glaring up at Ian. “Don’t want your fancy friends and that stupid artsy fag you used to fuck seeing the guy you’re slumming it with now or somethin’?”

Ian gapes at him. “Jesus Christ, _slumming_ it? Are you serious right now? We’re from the same fucking neighborhood, Mick. My ass is just as ghetto as yours. And Abe already met you! I didn’t try to hide who you were to me. Told him I was trying to get you back. Why the fuck would I be embarrassed by you anyways?”

Mickey just shrugs, breaking eye contact to focus on the frayed collar of Ian’s shirt. Mickey doesn’t offer anything further, and Ian eventually sighs and lets him go. “Me not wanting to go has got nothing to do with you, Mick. I still kind of feel like shit, and I don’t wanna be mingling with these people all night. I just want to hang out with you, alright?” Mickey nods slowly. “And I don’t wanna rub _this_ in Abe’s face either,” he adds, motioning between him and Mickey. “We didn’t end on the best terms, and I’m working on being less of an asshole.”

“And what the hell is _this_ supposed to be?” Mickey hears himself ask. For a long moment, Ian doesn’t say anything, and Mickey foolishly hopes he had only thought the words rather than actually saying them. He’s pretty certain this is not a conversation he’s ready to have without fucking it up. That hope is quickly shot to pieces though, when Ian lets out a bitter snort, shaking his head.

“I literally asked _you_ that question yesterday, and you played dumb. Acted like you had no idea what I could possibly mean,” Ian sneers back. “Everything’s still gotta be on your terms, huh? Can’t talk about shit until _you’re_ ready to talk about it. Fuck what I want, right?”

“Yeah, fuck what you want, Ian. And fuck you,” Mickey snaps back, as his hands curl into fists. “You bailing on me wasn’t on my fuckin’ terms, was it? You not visiting me for a fucking year wasn’t on my terms. Didn’t give me much of a choice in that, did you? We went through hell together, and I was—I was ready to—” _I was ready to marry you. I loved you._ Mickey chokes on the words and has to take a deep breath to keep his voice steady. “And you just turned into a fucking ghost on me. Acted like I never fuckin’ mattered to you. Started thinkin’ I had imagined the whole fuckin’ thing. Started to think I was goin’ fucking insane. You just _left_.”

“That’s what breakups are! I told you I was leaving! I told you I was done!” Ian roars back, flailing his long, gangly arms in the air. “You wouldn’t listen to me! That’s not how that shit works, Mickey. You don’t have to ask the other person’s permission to fucking walk away.”

“Yeah, you like to walk away, don’t you?” Mickey hisses. “That’s what you do best, Gallagher. You gonna run away now? Go home to your asshole brother and cry about how mean I am? Bet he'll eat that right up. Go on, do it. _Leave_. Be the fucking coward I know you are.”

Ian lunges forward at the word _coward_. The dark look in his eyes sends Mickey stumbling backwards into the wall again. As Ian stretches out to his full height and presses a sharp finger into Mickey’s chest, Mickey’s sure he’s about to hit him. He can already feel the fist connecting with his face, can already see them scrabbling around on his living room floor, clawing and grunting and trying to make the other give. But the punch never comes. The hand jabbing at him eventually relaxes until it’s lying flat against his chest, right over where _Ian Galager_ is written on his skin.

“I’m not that person anymore,” Ian says, with none of his earlier ire. “I don’t _want_ to be that person anymore. I’m not going anywhere.”

The whispered words start to quell the rage inside him. As the anger cools and his fists uncurl, it feels like his entire body is deflating. He had forgotten how tiring these fights could be and how shitty he always feels after them. He already wants to take the words back, and he has a feeling Ian’s thinking the same thing.

“I’m not sure why I left,” Ian admits, breaking the silence. “That last time, I mean. I’ve thought about it a lot, but it doesn’t—it feels like that memory belongs to someone else.”

“You were going through a lot.”

Ian jerks up one shoulder in a sort of half-shrug and then backs out of Mickey’s space. “Nothing felt right anymore,” Ian continues, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t even recognize myself. Looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. I wanted to fucking be _something_. I wanted to get out and go to West Point and be someone who fucking mattered and I—I destroyed all of that. And you, you were different too. You weren’t you anymore. You were acting like my nurse, and I hated myself for it. I didn’t know how to fix it, and I didn’t want to take the meds. I just wanted to reset everything. I wanted to burn it all down and start over.”

Ian looks up, like he expects Mickey to say something, but Mickey can’t find the words. This is the answer he’s been waiting years for. Somehow it’s nothing that he expected and makes perfect sense at the same time.

“It wasn’t just you, you know,” Ian says. “I pushed everyone away. I thought I could fix it all on my own and come back and then everything would be normal again. That’s fuckin’ moronic, isn’t it? I just thought everything would be right where I left it. That people wouldn’t move on without me. Christ, what the fuck was wrong with me?”

Ian pauses again, but Mickey still doesn’t say anything. He’s hanging on every fucking word coming out of Ian’s mouth, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to risk hearing the full story by running his mouth. Even if he already knows the climax, thanks to Lip. He’s considered telling Ian he knows about the suicide attempt, but he always changes his mind at the last moment. It feels like a secret Ian should have the chance to reveal himself, in his own way.

“Didn’t work. Of course it didn’t work,” he mutters, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I was never going to be normal, no matter how hard I tried to be. I was always gonna be the gay kid from South Side with shitty parents and a fuck ton of siblings and a fucked up brain. I was scared, and I blamed everything on the wrong people. Turned in to the exact person I never wanted to turn in to.”

_Monica,_ Mickey thinks, as Ian swipes a hand over his wet eyes and sniffs. _Fucking Monica._

“When I realized how badly I fucked up, I didn’t—I didn’t think there was any way I could make it right again, you know? It felt like it was too late to fix anything. That it wasn’t worth even trying. A few days later, I ended up at the old club and I—I—” Ian stutters over the word and huffs out a harsh breath. “Fuck, I can’t even say it. I really am a coward." 

“You’re the bravest person I know, Ian,” Mickey says softly. _I already know_ , he wants to add, _You don’t have to say it._ But he has a feeling that would just make Ian feel worse.

“No,” Ian says, “No, you were right. I _am_ a coward. I could’ve tried to fix things, but I didn’t want to face my own shit. I took a bunch of pills, washed ‘em down with a bottle of tequila, and then hoped if that didn’t do the trick then at least I’d fuckin’ freeze to death in the back alley of that stupid club.” Mickey doesn’t move or speak or even breathe, but Ian still flinches. “I ended up calling my brother before I passed out though. They got to me in time.” Ian takes a shaky breath and wipes at his eyes again. “I woke up a day later in the hospital. Lip was sobbing at the end of my bed. That’s when I realized how much like her I was. I thought it’d be easier if no one had to deal with me anymore, but it’s not, is it? It’s never easier. Not for the people who give a shit.”

“No,” Mickey agrees, “It’s not.”

“I decided that day not to be that person anymore,” Ian says. “I decided to get better, and I did. I’m trying, Mickey. I really am.”

“That time you came to visit me, after—”

“It was like a week after they released me from the hospital.” Ian looks down at the floor and starts wringing his hands together. “After I moved in with Lip. I wasn’t sure how many people knew about what happened. I was worried Lip would tell Mandy about it or something and then it’d get back to you. I just wanted you to know I was okay, in case—in case that still mattered to you. I didn’t want to hurt you anymore than I already had. Honestly, I thought you were gonna tell me to fuck off.”

“You looked like a fucking corpse, man,” Mickey says. “I’m not a total asshole.” A small smirk tugs at Ian’s lips. “Plus, I was too happy to see your stupid face again to tell you to fuck off. Missed that face. Didn’t want it to be the last time. Wasn’t about to scare you off.”

Ian looks up at that, his green eyes locking on Mickey’s. “I'm not sure anyone would believe it, but I’m starting to think you’re actually the romantic one between us, Mick,” Ian chuckles. “Saying sweet things like that.”

“I just said you looked like a corpse,” Mickey deadpans.

“Yeah, but then you followed it up with somethin’ right out of a sonnet. Missing my face and shit. You’re like the Shakespeare of Canaryville.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey grumbles, flipping him off. “Don’t be a dick. Just telling it like it is.”

Ian nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth that day. Didn’t want to scare you off either.”

“I get it, man.” Mickey pushes off the wall and walks toward Ian as slowly as he can without looking ridiculous, giving him ample time to back up if he’s not ready for someone to invade his space. Ian keeps still, and Mickey takes that as go-ahead to run his hands over Ian’s shoulders then down his arms until their hands meet and clasp together. “You okay?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Ian repeats. “And I’m sorry for all that shit I just said.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I just—I really want this to work, Mick,” Ian says, squeezing his hands. “I want to be together, and I’m just scared that you don’t uh—that you don’t want that, too.”

At that moment, there’s nothing Mickey wants more than to be with this beautiful man in front of him again. He lets himself sink into Ian, resting his head against his shoulder and breathing him in. There’s a pull between them that Mickey’s sure he’s been powerless to resist since they met, no matter how hard he's tried to fight it.

“I worry about that, too.”

“About what?”

“You not wanting me.”

Ian clutches his hands even tighter. “How the hell could I not want you?” Ian asks, his lips hovering just over Mickey’s ear.

The words make him shiver. _Fuck it,_ Mickey thinks, as he frees his hands from Ian’s grip. Ian whines when he pulls away but goes quiet when Mickey starts unbuckling his belt. “Um,” Ian begins, as Mickey’s jeans hit the floor, only to be quickly joined by his boxers. “This has been kind of an emotionally draining conversation,” he points out, but Mickey doesn’t stop undressing. “Are you really picking the one time I’m not horny as all hell for your ass to finally fuck?”

“This ain’t about fucking,” Mickey mutters. He hesitates when he realizes all that’s left is the tank top he had on under his shirt. The thought of pulling it off nauseates him, but he figures if he’s going to start throwing around the word _coward_ during arguments, he should probably stop acting like one himself. With that thought, he grabs the bottom of the ragged thing and tosses it over his head. “There,” he grunts, holding out his arms. “There it is.”

Ian raises his eyebrows, looking thoroughly confused. “If this isn’t about fucking, you should probably stop showing off the goods,” Ian says, with an almost shy-looking smile. “Might not be able to keep my hands off you.”

“You really got nothing to say?” Mickey snaps, feeling more and more like an idiot with every second he spends naked in the middle of his living room. If Iggy comes home now, his brother will probably never let him hear the end of it.

“I’m gonna be honest with you here,” Ian starts, and Mickey feels his stomach start to churn. “I have no idea what the hell is happening right now. Are you sure this isn’t a sex thing?" 

“No, it’s not a fucking sex thing,” Mickey answers, frustrated. “You don’t wanna to talk about this fucking thing?” he asks, waving a hand around the tattoo on his chest.

“Oh, that. I already knew that was there, Mick. You showed it to me.” When Ian’s eyes fall to the tattoo and remain there, Mickey feels his heart start racing again. Ian extends a hand and brushes his fingertips over the name. It takes every bit of willpower Mickey has in him not to recoil from the touch. “It looks a lot better now.”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t infected as shit anymore.”

“Good,” Ian says, still running his fingers over it. “Got some more, I see,” he adds, as his hands drift down to Mickey’s ribs. “Do ‘em yourself?”

“What d’you think?”

Ian raises his eyebrows. “You just wanted to show off your work then?”

“Jesus, no, just—fuck, I don’t know. Thought you should know what you’re getting into, I guess, before we do anything else. There’s another one of these fucking things on my shoulder.” He turns around and shudders when Ian touches that one too. “Not like I have any money to get rid of them, so they’re here to stay.”

“Holy shit, what’s this from?” He feels Ian press his thumb against the scar that slashes across his side to his back. “You definitely didn’t have this before. How have I not felt this thing?”

Mickey grits his teeth and tries not think of his father grinning cruelly down at him. Tries not hear his own screams ringing in his ears. “That one’s courtesy of my dad. Dumb fuck stabbed me but missed all the important shit. How hard is it to at least hit a fucking kidney?”

“Jesus Christ,” Ian breathes out, covering the scar with one of his large hands. “Seriously, fuck your fucking dad. I wish I could kill that fucker myself. Wish I had grabbed a broken beer bottle and just stabbed that asshole in the neck at the Alibi.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure someone will take care of that for you soon enough, tough guy. The asshole’s not exactly popular in prison.”

“Yeah, but I’d want him to see my fuckin’ face when I did it,” Ian says, voice low and dangerous. “I’d want him to know it was a faggot who did him in.”

That declaration probably shouldn’t turn Mickey on as much as it does. Blood starts to rush to his cock, and Mickey lurches forward. He tugs on his boxers again, before Ian can see his growing excitement and realize just how fucked up the guy he’s dating actually is. “Whatever, as long as he’s out of our fucking lives for good. I’m telling ya, someone’ll off him soon enough.”

“Aw, come on, don’t do that,” Ian complains, as Mickey starts to put his clothes back on. “I was enjoying the view. Never knew you to be a tease, Mick.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Ian comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Mickey’s middle before he can get his tank top on. “Is this why you wouldn’t let me take your shirt off earlier?”

Mickey shrugs. “Maybe. Whatever.”

Ian kisses the spot just behind his ear. “I like ‘em.”

“No, you fuckin’ don’t." 

Ian kisses that fucking spot again, and Mickey feels goosebumps start to break out across his skin. “Yeah, I do. Still the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”

“You are so full of shit, Gallagher,” Mickey laughs, as Ian leans forward to plant a kiss on his cheek as well. “Get the fuck off me." 

“Nope.” Ian presses his lips against Mickey’s jaw, trailing kisses up along his face until he reaches Mickey’s ear again. “Not until you believe me.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright, I believe you. Not get off.” Mickey nudges him in the ribs, and Ian lets go with a long-suffering sigh. After he’s dressed again, he turns to find Ian grinning at him. A strange mix of feelings floods him at the sight of it, at how Ian’s eyes seem to sparkle. There’s relief that Ian still wants him, but there’s dread as well. He’s in love with Ian Gallagher. He’s so in love it hurts, and he can’t bear the idea of him leaving again.

“I want to be together, too. I want this work, but—just promise me you won’t leave, or do—uh, or do what you did again.” His voice sounds weak, but Mickey doesn’t care. He needs this. He needs to hear Ian say it. “Promise you’ll stay this time.”

The smile drops from Ian’s face, and Mickey instantly knows he’s not going to get the answer he wants. “I can’t promise you that, Mick,” Ian says, with obvious regret. “I want to, but—fuck, I don’t want to be my fucking mother. I don’t want to make promises I might not be able to keep. I’m better now, but it’s never gonna end. I’m never gonna be a normal fucking person. I’m always gonna be sick. I could—I could fuck up again. I could leave or start feeling hopeless again. I don’t _want_ to, but—”

“I know you’re not gonna magically be cured or whatever,” Mickey interrupts. “I’ve always known that, Ian. Just, Christ, just promise me you’ll try.”

“You know how I told you about uh—about the doctor appointment last week?”

Mickey nods.

“That’s me trying, Mick,” he says. “I’m better at noticing when I’m off now. I’m not perfect or anything, sometimes I still fuck up, but if I feel it starting up, I try to tell someone now, so if I can’t—if I can’t help myself, you know, that uh—”

“That someone else will help you,” Mickey finishes for him. “You trusted me to help you?”

A blush starts to light up Ian’s cheeks. “Yeah, if I didn’t go and do it myself, I knew you’d drag my ass there. I did though, and it’s fine now. But it was just, you know, in case. I promise I won’t stop trying this time. Is that gonna be enough?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, “Yeah, Ian, that’s enough.” When he pulls Ian into a hug, it feels like someone has finally taken a heavy weight off of his chest. “That’s all any of us can really do, right? Not like you can predict the fuckin’ future.”

“I’m _trying_ ,” Ian whispers again, into his hair. “I’m really trying.”

Mickey holds him tighter. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and for your support! Sorry this one's up later than usual.
> 
> Next up is a new POV I'm both excited and nervous about writing, so we'll see how it goes. :)


	13. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house looks the same as it does in all of her nightmares.

The house looks the same as it does in all of her nightmares. Crumbling paint, sunken steps, boarded up windows, splotches of brown grass and rusting appliances littering the front yard. The sky is dark and the faint roar of thunder can be heard in the distance. All that’s needed to complete the fearsome picture is Terry Milkovich leaning against the fence, cigarette dangling from his cruel smile and a shotgun slung over his shoulder.

“Miss? Miss, this the right place?”

Mandy Milkovich tears her eyes away from the house, from the place she used to call _home._ It’s not home anymore, of course. Home is her daughter now, with her pudgy cheeks and familiar blue eyes. Home is her little house with the yellow flower boxes in the windows. Home is Jason with his dorky smile and the stupid little notes he sneaks into her lunch before work.

_No,_ she nearly answers. _This isn’t the right place. I must have given you the wrong address._ Ian’s new address is written on a folded up piece of notebook paper in her purse. She could easily hand it to the cab driver and go there instead. It would be a colossal waste of money, but at least she wouldn’t have to step foot inside the house that she vowed she would never see again when she left Chicago for the last time.

But running away now would be admitting fear. It would be a pathetic declaration that Terry with his rough hands and mocking laugh still holds some power over her. She refuses to be afraid of this house or the ghosts that lurk inside of its walls. She’s been called a lot of nasty things in her life—slut, cunt, bitch, whore, freak—but no one ever fucked with her because no one ever called her a coward. 

“Yeah, it’s the right place. Thanks.” She hands the guy some money and pushes out of the car. The first raindrops of the impending storm sting her face. She pulls up the hood of her coat, as she nods to the driver when he hands over her bag and tells her to have a good day.

The lock on the door is still as broken as it always was, so she lets herself in without knocking. It’s immediately obvious there’s no one home. It’s eerily quiet. In all of her years living here, she doesn’t think she ever remembers it being this quiet, not with her shitty father and siblings and fuck knows how many cousins and all of their respective friends and fuck buddies constantly running around.

She drops her duffel bag on the floor, digs around the couch until she finds the remote, and then turns on the television to drown out the silence. Some war movie she vaguely remembers flickers on. The sounds of gunfire and men shouting at each other fill the house and make her feel right at home.

Mandy drags her hand across the back of the old couch and then over the fraying armrest. She pauses over a small hole burned into fabric and smiles, remembering Ian grinning at some dumb joke she made and the cigarette dropping from his lips. It’s only memories like that keeping her from squeezing her eyes shut and fleeing this place as fast as her legs can take her. She tries to keep that smile close to her, as she turns away from the couch.

If she were the kind of person who believed in crazy shit, she’d probably think this house is haunted. As she stares out ahead, it almost feels like the walls are contracting and slowly closing in on her. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she suddenly feels cold. But she still doesn’t run. She clenches her jaw, hugs her arms around her waist, and pushes forward.

She pauses again on the way to her former bedroom and stares at a spot on the floor, just outside of Mickey’s bedroom. It looks no different than the rest of the dirty, stained rug, but she’s always avoided it anyways. It’s where she found her mother years ago, cold and blue and reeking of vomit. It’s where she heard Mickey cry for the first time. It might be where she really cried for the first time. Dad never liked it when they cried, but they couldn’t help it that day. She steps around it, because some habits never die.

When she finally reaches her room, she’s relieved that nothing looks the same. All of her band posters and magazine cutouts have been torn from the walls and replaced with pictures of naked chicks and guns and cars and naked chicks in cars with guns. Something must have happened to her old bed, because there’s only a battered mattress on the floor now. Terry insisted his little girl have the biggest room of all the kids, but Iggy must’ve snatched it up when there was finally no one left to tell him no.

A man in the movie yells out, and Mandy flinches. For a second, she could have sworn it was Terry screaming from the kitchen, demanding another beer or that she make breakfast. She backs out of the room and slams the door shut behind her. There are no memories in there worth digging up. In fact, she’s worked very hard to block out that room entirely.

_This was a mistake._ She’s only been inside for a few minutes, and it already feels like she’s being weighed down, like she’s dragging her feet through mud. When she blinks, she catches glimpses of her own bruised, blood-splattered face, of her father looming over her in the darkness, of Mickey looking down at their dead mother, of Ian staring blankly at the wall, deaf to all of her pleas. _This was a mistake._

She doesn’t like remembering the person she was when she lived here. She’s separated herself from that person in her mind, from the mean and fragile girl who worried that no one wanted her, that she was good for nothing but sex, destined to die alone and miserable on a living room floor just like her mother before her. Old Mandy died the day she ran away from Kenyatta and struck out on her own instead of running back to the South Side, as far she’s concerned. It’s probably not the healthiest way of dealing with her issues, but it had been working okay up until now.

She pulls out her phone and taps the number she knows by heart despite only calling it a couple of times a month. _I need to get out of here, I need to get out of here_ , she thinks over and over again while the phone rings. Mickey won’t blame her for leaving. Mickey will probably just be pissed she came back to this place at all.

“Hey, Mandy?”

It’s almost how pathetic how quickly his voice brings a smile to her face. “Hey, Ian.”

“What’s up?”

“You at work?”

“Nope, just at home, being lazy as shit. I have the day off.”

“Well, thank fuck for that,” she says. “I’m at my old house. You mind if I come there instead? I don’t know how Mickey lives in this fucking dump. It’s giving me the creeps.”

There’s a long pause and then a startled laugh. “Wait, hold up, you’re in _Chicago_?”

“That’s what I just said, dipshit,” she says, as she snatches up her bag and makes her way back on to the porch. “Should’ve just had the cab bring me straight to your place, but I was hoping I’d catch Mick here.”

“He’s got the lunch shift today, won’t be out for a while.” It’s ridiculous how happy Ian knowing her brother’s work schedule makes her. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve figured their shit out, but it at least means they haven’t fucked it all up quite yet. “You can come hang out here, and I’ll text him to let him know to come by after.” Another pause. “Oh wait, shit, you took a cab. Want me to come pick you up? I don’t mind at all. I’ll leave right now. Shit, Mands, I’m so happy you’re here. I fucking miss you.”

The smile on her face stretches out until she can feel herself beaming. “I really fucking miss you too,” she tells him, meaning it. “And don’t you dare get in your car and drive all the way out here. Might’ve been out of South Side for a while, but I remember how to take the El.”

“Come on, Mands, it looks like it’s gonna start pouring any second. I’ll—”

“Keep your pretty butt glued to your couch, Gallagher,” she cuts in. “It’s your day off, and you deserve to be lazy. I’m coming to you.”

“I’m serious, it’s not—”

“It’s not up for debate, so don’t bother,” she interrupts again. “Kind of want to walk around the old neighborhood anyways, prove I haven’t gone completely soft. Maybe get into a fight with some bitch on the way. It’s been a long time since I've punched someone.”

Ian snorts into the phone. “Fine, but just know I don't have the money to be bailing your ass out.”

“Excuse me? Bail me out? Mandy Milkovich doesn’t get fuckin’ caught.”

“Yeah, alright. Well, Ian Gallagher just wants Mandy Milkovich to get here in one piece.”

Mandy scrunches up her nose. “Ew, I vote we never talk in the third person again.”

“Yeah, I second that,” Ian laughs. “Now get the fuck over here. I’ll make pancakes.”

 

* * *

 

Ian’s new place is nice but not too nice. It actually sort of reminds her of her own house, small and unassuming and shoved in the middle of much bigger, more expensive ones. Some of her new friends ask her how she can handle living in their small house now that they have the kid, but she likes that it’s a little crowded. She’s never put much value in space and quiet. She grew up in a constant state of chaos, always tripping over one relative or another. Coming home to silence usually just meant some bad shit had gone down. Adjusting to sleeping in a neighborhood without a fucked up lullaby of shouting and gunshots and wasted relatives stumbling in at all hours of the night had been difficult enough.

She only has to knock twice before the door flings open and Ian appears, practically bouncing on his feet and grinning from ear-to-ear like an overeager puppy. She’d probably make fun of him for it if his face didn’t reflect exactly how she feels herself.

He pulls her into his arms and spins her around in the air twice before setting her back down. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming, asshole?” he exclaims, still clinging to her. “I would’ve stocked up on that prissy pink wine you like now. You know, make you feel at home and shit.”

Mandy punches him hard in the arm, which only makes him laugh. “Oh, fuck off,” she grumbles, trying to wiggle out his strong grip. “I said I _tried_ it at a party, and it wasn’t _bad_. Are you really never gonna let that go?”

Ian shakes his head. “I’ll let it go as soon as picturing you drinking pink wine out of some fancy glass at an office party doesn’t crack me up.”

“Ugh, _shut up_ ,” she grunts, pushing at his chest until he finally releases her. “Bet you drank fruitier shit when you were dancin’ it up in those gold booty shorts,” she teases, brushing by him and giving him a quick smack on the ass. “I’m never telling you anything again by the way.”

“Aw, come on, don’t say that,” Ian whines, as he closes the door. “I made you pancakes. I feel like that buys me some more stories.”

There’s a stack of chocolate chip pancakes sitting on top of the kitchen counter. She hops on to a stool, drenches a couple of them in syrup, and starts eating. “Oh my god, these are so fucking good,” she groans, after the first bite. “Jason makes me buy the healthy, whole wheat crap. They’re okay, I guess, but they got nothing on these. I could eat these the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of a pancake aficionado.” Ian takes the stool next to her but doesn’t eat. He just leans his elbows on the counter, cocks his head to the side, and stares at her.

“You’re gonna have to stop doing that immediately,” Mandy says, wagging a finger in his face. “You look like a serial killer. Don’t need you gawking at me while I’m trying to eat.”

“I just can’t believe you’re fucking here. Like for real, in human form, instead of on a computer screen,” he says, still grinning like an idiot. “It’s been—shit, I don’t even want to think about how many years it’s been. What made you decide to come up?”

The slight tremor in Ian’s voice when she asked how he and Mickey were doing the last time is what made her decide to finally visit. He had said everything was fine, but she could hear the anxiety in her friend’s voice. As hard as she tried not to think about it, she couldn’t shake the worry they were going to fuck things up for themselves again. Knowing Mickey has someone who loves him has made it easier for her to stay away. It’s made it easier for her to stare at her brother’s number in her phone but never dial it. 

It’s not her brother’s fault she’s never called. It’s just that Mickey reminds her of Old Mandy in a way that Ian never really has. Mickey has always been the old house, while Ian has always been her escape from it—a boy too beautiful to really be from South Side, a bright spot in her dark life. Whenever she calls Ian, she never has to worry about him begging her to come home or judging her or trying to save her. She knows he'll just be there for her, offering quiet support, ready to help but only if asked. She suspects Ian might feel the same way about her, and that’s why, even when they’re running away from everyone and everything else in their lives, they never totally let each other go. They’ve always given each other the space to fuck up on their own, and they’ve always welcomed each other back after the fall.

But the thought of her brother being alone again filled her with dread that built and built until it was impossible to ignore anymore. She’s never been close to any of her siblings. Terry didn’t exactly encourage them to get along, and it had always been easier to just stick to their own corners of the house. But if she were to ever have one of those unbreakable sibling bonds she envies in the Gallaghers, Mickey’s probably the best candidate. They were the youngest and the most vulnerable. They both fell in love with a sweet redheaded boy with more dreams than they ever allowed themselves to entertain.

It’s been years since she’s seen Mickey or even spoken to him. Listening to Ian describe the man he is now without actually being able to see him for herself had started to bother her enough that she finally broke down and bought the plane ticket. Seeing him in person will be easier than trying to explain why she’s stayed away for so long over the phone.

Plus, she’d be lying if she said she hasn’t been dying to see her best friend’s face and hold him close again. “You,” she answers. “And Mickey.”

Ian’s smile wavers for a second. It’s quick, quick enough that someone who isn’t an expert in all of Ian Gallagher’s microexpressions probably would’ve missed it. “I already texted him,” he says, tapping his fingers against the counter. “He hasn’t answered yet, but that’s normal. Lunch shifts are the busiest. He always checks his messages before he leaves though.”

The front door busts open with a loud _thwack_ before she can ask Ian how they’re doing. “Shit,” she hears Ian mutter to himself, as she cranes her neck back to look at who’s joined them. She expects to see her brother come sauntering in, but it’s Ian’s brother who walks through the door instead. With two young, very pretty, obnoxiously giggly girls close at his heels.

Lip fucking Gallagher. She had known seeing Ian meant seeing Lip as well, but knowing something might happen and actually living the moment are two different beasts. When his blue, slightly unfocused eyes snap up and lock on hers, she can feel her breath catch in her throat. Those eyes have always held way too much power over her.

“Holy shit.”

Ian shoots up and places himself directly between the two of them, like he’s afraid they might start throwing punches or something. “Hey, I uh—I didn’t think you’d be home ‘til later,” Ian says to Lip. “Don’t you have class?”

Lip doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring past Ian at Mandy. One of the girls, the taller one, eventually answers instead. “It got canceled. The prof’s sick. We had a few drinks to celebrate.”

“And, what, you were just gonna come back here and have a casual mid-afternoon threesome?”

Ian looks back at Mandy with a raised eyebrow and smirk. The taller girl starts giggling again, but the shorter one doesn’t take as kindly to the joke. “Gross, no,” she says, narrowing her eyes at Mandy. “Just came here to have some fun. Who are you anyways? One of Ian’s friends?”

The taller girl hiccups loudly. The frown on the shorter one’s face instantly fades away and she starts laughing like it’s the funniest fucking thing in the world. Lip begins to sway on his feet, and Mandy can’t help but roll her eyes. It’s the middle of the day and all of these smart assholes who will probably run the world someday are drunk off their asses. It’s always made her jealous how Lip can be such a fucking mess and manage to coast through life anyways. Someone always seems to come out of the woodwork to help him, even when he’s doing his best to tear down his own life. Sometimes she wonders if he ever would’ve gotten his head out of his ass and gone to college if she hadn’t submitted those applications for him.

“Uh.” Lip huffs out a breath and scrubs his hand over his face. “I’m actually gonna have to call it a day, ladies,” he says to the girls. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, come on!” one of them protests. “You promised us free beer.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, glancing awkwardly between them and Mandy. “We’ve got company. Maybe we can meet up later or something? You guys have my number.”

They leave, clearly disappointed, but without putting up much more of a fight. Mandy wishes Lip would leave with them, so she and Ian can return to their easy conversation. Now there’s a tension in the air that makes her feel like her skin’s too tight. 

“I uh—I didn’t know you were coming,” Lip says, the tone of his voice making it sound like an apology. He delivers a sharp nudge to Ian’s ribs as he walks by. “This fucker didn’t tell me.”

“Hey—” Ian begins to protest, but Mandy cuts him off.

“He didn’t know either. I surprised him. You know me, wanted to make a dramatic entrance.” The closer he gets, the harder her heart beats and the more her palms sweat. It’s fucking maddening that he can still inspire this kind of reaction out of her after so many years apart, but she’s not exactly surprised. He’s the first boy she ever let herself picture a future with, ever really let herself love. The memory of him and the way his hands on her skin used to make her feel refuses to fade, no matter how much she struggles to divorce her new self from her old life.

When he reaches out his arms toward her, she’s torn between smacking them away and burying herself in them. She settles on a quick, loose hug that she pulls away from as quickly as she can without making things awkward. His touch isn’t as electric as she remembers it once being, but the impulse to reach out and grasp for more contact still stubbornly remains.

“You look good." 

“Thanks. You look drunk.”

His smile is crooked and beautiful. “Yeah, you got me there,” he chuckles. He runs a hand through his rain-soaked hair, making his wavy curls stick up at odd angles. It’s annoying how charmingly disheveled it makes him look. “So, uh, how are you? Heard about the kid. That’s great. Managed to pull some of the details out of Ian here, but he won’t give me too much.”

“I’m good,” she answers, honestly. “I’ve been working as a receptionist in a small office for a while. It’s kind of lame, but it’s easy money. Just gotta answer phones and pretend to be friendly or whatever. And yeah, I am a mom now. She’s loud, but she’s cute, so it’s cool. Got my eyes.” Lip nods and looks at her like she’s reciting the secrets of the universe to him. It’s too intense. It’s too much to be this close to those eyes again. “I don’t like being away from her for this long, but I really wanted to see _Ian_.” She tries to emphasize the name. It’s sure as hell not polite, but she wants Lip to leave. He’s like the house, something that reminds her far too much of Old Mandy, something that makes her feel weak.

“Right,” Lip says, looking over his shoulder at Ian. “Shit, yeah, I didn’t mean to intrude. I can get out of your hair, probably should be at the library anyways. Um, how uh—how long are you here for?”

“Probably just the weekend.”

“And you’re staying here?”

“I hope so,” she says, glancing at Ian. “I thought I’d stay at the house with my brothers, but I really don’t want to be there.”

“Of course you can stay here,” Ian says. “My bed’s kind of small, but we’ve fit in smaller before. Or I can set up the couch for you. Wherever you’re comfortable.”

“I can find somewhere to stay, if you want me to,” Lip offers. “Fiona would probably love if I spent a weekend over there anyways.”

Mandy rolls her eyes at him. “I knew you’d be here. I’m not kicking you out of your own house. Stay or go, whatever you want, just don’t change your life on my account. And, here, eat some fucking pancakes or something. Maybe it’ll soak up the booze in your gut.” She’s impressed at how casual her voice sounds, at how good she still is at pretending.

Lip looks like he can't decide between sitting down next to her and getting the hell away from her as quickly as he can. Before he can settle on a course of action, a phone rings and Ian curses. “Shit. Sorry, it’s work.” He shoots her an anxious look that she answers with her middle finger.

“Jesus, go take your call,” she says. “I’m sure me and the asshole will be fine on our own for a few minutes.”

Ian looks doubtful about that actually being the case but still ducks into his room, leaving her and Lip alone. After a few more seconds of hesitation, Lip leans against the counter. “You look really good, Mandy,” he says. “You look happy.”

She’s never been much of a blusher but those words almost do the trick. It’s one of the better compliments she’s been given from a guy she’s fucked. _You look happy._ “I am happy now, believe it or not. Who’d have thought, right? What about you? You happy?”

Lip looks caught off guard by the question, like no one's ever asked him that. He doesn’t answer quickly enough for a _yes_ to be believable. “Yeah, sure, sometimes, I think,” he says, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

“Well, hey, _sometimes_ is better than we ever expected as kids, right? Back when you were trying to knock me up and run away from that giant nerd brain of yours.”

Lip grimaces and looks away from her, his eyes focusing on the stack of pancakes between them. “Jesus, I was such an asshole.”

“Maybe. We were all assholes though, in our own ways. Probably still are. Just gotta keep a tighter lid on it now, so we can function in the real world.”

“I really haven’t gotten much better in the uh—relationship department,” he admits. “Just a bit more upfront now. Honesty doesn’t seem to help much though.”

“Bet they all think they can change you, right? Like as soon as your dick meets their magic vagina, you’ll be a new man. All into commitment and shit.”

Lip nods slowly and smirks. “Yeah, sounds about right. Kind of wish I could be that guy, sometimes. But I never am.”

Mandy tries to smile at him, but she worries she doesn’t quite pull it off. Neither of them say anything for a while. He just stands next to her while she eats her pancakes, his fingers fidgeting occasionally like they’re itching for cigarette.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t better to you,” he blurts out. “I know it was a long ass time ago and you probably don’t give a shit, but I am. Sorry. So, yeah.”

It has been a long ass time and she’s not angry at him anymore, but it still feels good to hear the apology. She’s stopped blaming him for the shitty period of her life that followed after their last night together. She’s the one who chose to run away. She’s the one who convinced herself no one would ever love her the way she loved Lip Gallagher, that she might as well just give up. “It’s fine. It’s not your fault you didn’t love me. Would’ve been shittier if you lied.”

“I don’t even know if I’m capable of it.”

“Of what?”

“Loving someone,” he clarifies. “The right way, at least. The way you’re supposed to love someone. I only seem to love women who treat me like garbage. A therapist would probably have a fuckin’ field day with my love life. Probably best I stay a lifelong bachelor. My future students can gossip about their poor old, drunk professor.”

She’s tempted to comfort him, but she doesn’t want to indulge his annoying habit of feeling sorry for himself. So she keeps her hands to herself and her response brief and honest. “You know, for someone with such an enormous ego, you sure do underestimate yourself a lot.”

Lip looks surprised by the answer, but Ian barges out of his room before he can say anything. “Hey, sorry about that. New supervisor was having a meltdown, but everything’s good now. You guys want coffee or something?”

“No, none for me. I’m gonna head to the library, let you two catch up.” Lip nods to Ian and then turns back to her again. “It was really great to see you, Mandy. Seriously. You should come around to visit more often.”

She wants to say she will, but she knows she won’t, so she just smiles. He seems to know what the lack of answer implies, but he doesn’t look too crushed. It’s good that there isn’t the same pull between them anymore. And it’s good that she only feels relief when he walks away and closes the door behind him. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry, if I had known he’d be—”

“It’s fine,” Mandy interrupts, slapping her hand over Ian’s mouth. “I don’t want to waste time talking about your brother. Give me the fuckin’ tour already.”

There isn’t much to see—a small kitchen and the connected living room, the two bedrooms and the bathroom that sits between them. Ian’s room is markedly different from his old one at the Gallagher house, but she’s not surprised by the way it looks. “My room is super boring now, too,” she says, letting her eyes roam over the bare walls.

“I like the open space. Plus, I don’t even know what I’d hang up these days. Pictures of coffee and scones? Some naked dudes?”

“Coffee, scones, and naked dudes sounds like heaven to me, honestly.”

“Yeah, you know, now that I say it out loud, it actually doesn’t sound half bad. Maybe my true calling is interior decorating.”

“Oh god, that’s so gay.”

Ian raises his eyebrows at her. “Pretty sure I can’t get any gayer anyways,” he laughs, before wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her down on to his bed. They settle in next to each other, their arms pressed together and their eyes fixed on the ceiling above them.

“So how’s my brother doing?”

“Which one?”

She jabs her elbow into his side. “Don’t be a dick.”

“He’s doing well,” he says, as he lightly grips her hand. “Doesn’t like his job very much, but he’s sticking with it, working hard. We saw Yevgeny a little while ago. Svetlana drove him down for a couple of days. He’s looking for a new place, so we— _shit_ , so Mickey can have him overnight sometimes. Svet doesn’t want him staying at your old house.”

“Why’s he gonna waste money on a new place? Shit, I’d just shack up here if I were him. This place is a billion times nicer than our house.” She feels Ian flinch next to her and has to hold back the exasperated sigh pushing at her lips. They’re making things harder than they need to be, that much she’s already sure of, even if she doesn’t know the details.

“We’re in kind of an awkward stage right now,” Ian says, holding her hand a little tighter. “I think it’d be skipping a step to move in, seeing as we haven’t even decided if we’re actually together yet. You know, officially.”

“Jesus, you two. Nothing can ever be simple,” she complains, tilting her head so it rests against Ian’s shoulder. “You love each other, right? What the hell else matters?”

“There’s a lot of history there, Mands. A lot of fuck-ups.”

“Well, fuck history. Forget it.”

Ian snorts. “I’ll say that to him next time we have a fight. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“Nah, next time you get into a fight just kiss the shit out of him. That’ll shut him up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he chuckles softly. “I miss this,” he adds. “I miss you. Let’s never go this long without seeing each other again, alright?”

“I like that promise. I’m gonna hold you to it,” she says. “Next time you should come visit me! We’d have to stock up on extra strength sunscreen for your freckly ass, but you’d like Florida. And you have to meet my daughter. She’s fucking adorable.”

Ian props himself up on his elbow, so he can turn and meet her eyes. “I’d love that. Seriously. Let’s make that happen. I need to see Mini-Mandy in person.”

“Beth,” she groans. “Her name is Beth.”

“Sure, whatever. She’ll always be Mini-Mandy to me. Or M&M. Oh my god, can that be her nickname?”

The way Ian is smiling dazzles her for a moment. He looks so much healthier and so much brighter than the last time she saw him. He looks like the beautiful redheaded goofball she fell in love with all those years ago. It feels like someone is squeezing her heart, and there are tears pushing against the backs of her eyes, but she blinks them away. She’s not completely sure what she’s feeling. There’s regret that she let so much time pass without seeing that smile, but mostly she’s just happy. Happy that, somehow, against all the fucking odds, both of them made it. Both of them are okay.

“The nickname only her weird Uncle Ian calls her, maybe.”

Ian’s smile grows even wider. “Weird Uncle Ian, huh? I can work with that.”

 

* * *

 

Ian drops her off at Patsy's Pies a few hours later, even though Mickey still hasn't texted back. She tries to drag him in with her, but he refuses, insisting that she and Mickey should take some time for themselves and catch up. The whole thing seems dramatic and a little bit ridiculous to her. It’s not like she and Mickey are going to run into each other’s arms and have some earth-shattering heart-to-heart, but she suspects it’s about Ian feeling unsure of what Mickey wants more than anything else.

The first familiar face she sees when she walks inside, a bell dinging behind her, is Debbie Gallagher. It’s insane how much she’s grown up since they last saw each other, but she looks so much like her brother, Mandy instantly recognizes her.

“Oh my god, Mandy?” Debbie gasps from behind the counter. “Is that you?" 

“Sure is!” Mandy exclaims, holding out her arms. “The one and only.”

“You look amazing!” Debbie squeals, dashing over to the exit. When she reaches the front, she throws her arms around Mandy and pulls her into a tight hug. “Ugh, how do you always look so pretty? Why can’t I do my makeup like yours? Remember when you tried to teach me? However many years later, and I still can’t do it myself.”

“Stop, you look hot, Debs,” Mandy insists. “These certainly grew in, huh?” she adds, motioning toward Debbie's breasts. “Look at Double-D Debs over here.”

Debbie lets out a squeaky laugh and nods. “Sure did! Got one decent thing from Monica, I guess. And oh god, I don’t even wanna talk about how many douchebags have called me that nickname thinking it’s charming. Double-D Debbie. The worst part is how clever they all think they are.” She looks over shoulder toward the kitchen and then back to Mandy. “Mickey didn’t tell me you were coming by. Asshole. You’re here to see him, right?”

“Yup, Ian just dropped me off.”

“And he didn’t even come in to say hi to his little sister? He’s an asshole too then,” she concludes. “He’s probably just trying to avoid ordering pie. Thinks he’s getting fat or some dumb shit like that, but he can’t resist it. The pie is pretty fucking good though. You want some?”

“Uh, maybe—”

“Mandy?”

Debbie turns around, and Mandy’s eyes follow hers until they land on Mickey. He’s standing across from them at the other end of the counter, an empty bus tray in his hands. It’s hard to read his expression. He doesn’t look excited or pissed or anything but confused, really. She doesn’t blame him. She’d probably be really fucking confused too if he just showed up at her office one day.

“Hey, big bro.”

“Hey,” he says back. “What are—uh, what—?”

“You can take a break and grab a table for a while, Mickey,” Debbie interjects. “Don’t even punch out. I won’t tell. I’ll bring you two some pie and coffee." 

Mandy nods and plops herself down at the first empty table she finds, not even checking to see if Mickey’s following her. About a minute later, he appears again, slipping in across from her. He still looks confused, but she thinks she can almost see a smile starting to form.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Mandy laughs and shakes her head. “It’s so great to see you again too, Mickey,” she teases. “Friendly as ever I see.”

“I just—you got out of this fuckin’ place. You didn’t need to come back.”

“You’re right, I didn’t _need_ to. I wanted to. I missed Ian and I missed you and I decided, fuck it, I’m gonna go see his newly un-incarcerated ass whether he likes it or not.”

That earns her a real smile. It’s brief, quickly covered up by a cough and then a more serious expression, but it’s enough. “It’s not that I didn’t want to see you or whatever,” he explains, running his hand over his bottom lip. “I just didn’t want you to get sucked back in here, you know? Plus, Iggy took over your room a while ago. Looks like shit now. Tits everywhere." 

“Ain’t getting sucked back in anywhere, so don’t worry about that,” she starts. “And Iggy’s more than welcome to it. That room always looked like shit.” Mickey nods and goes to say something but snaps his mouth shut when a waitress appears with coffee and two pieces of pie. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around more,” she continues, once the woman is gone. “I’m sorry I—”

“No, don’t do that,” Mickey says, waving his hand in front of him. “I’m serious. Don’t be sorry for that. I’m just—I’m just glad you got out, you know? That you aren’t stuck in Bumfuck, Indiana with that douchebag anymore.” He sighs and then looks up at her, his eyes flitting around her face. “You look really good, Mandy.”

“I know,” she says, giving her dark hair an exaggerated flip. “The Gallaghers have already showered me in compliments.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “They never shut up, do they?”

“Never,” she agrees. “But I think that’s why I like them so much. Well, most of them anyways.” He laughs, and she lets herself take him in for a moment. He looks better than she expected. His cheeks are bright red and there’s sweat matting down his hair, but he looks good. Better than the last time they saw each other. “You look good, too.”

“Whatever.” He picks up his fork and stabs at his pie a couple of times without taking a bite. “Heard about your kid. Beth, right?" 

She nods and tries to ignore the pang of guilt in her stomach. Ian must have told him, because she hasn’t bothered to inform anyone in her family that another Milkovich has entered the world. She considers how much it might hurt him to have to hear about her life from Ian. Especially since he once had to hear about Ian's life from her. She and Ian have both run away, but they’ve never completely cut each other out. Not like they have with Mickey. She wants to apologize for that and try to explain it, but she knows it would just make him uncomfortable. She's not even sure if she could explain it anyways.

“She looks just like us. Blue eyes, black hair, bad attitude. She's kind of a drama queen. Used to try to rip the hair right out of my head when she was a baby. I had to wear it up.”

“Poor girl. Lookin' like us.”

“Oh, shut up, she’s adorable.” She pulls out her cell phone and shows him her home screen—a picture of Beth grinning up at the camera. “She look anything like Yevgeny?”

Mickey swallows and then nods. “Uh, yeah, actually, she does. His hair got darker, and he’s got the blue eyes too."

“We should figure out a way for them to meet. I’ve already convinced Ian to come to Florida—”

“Can’t leave the state.”

“I know. But that’s not forever, ‘long as you keep your ass in line,” Mandy argues. “We’ll figure it out. I can come to Chicago again, bring her with me next time. Maybe I’ll even bring the man with me, too. I don’t think he believes me when I tell him how shitty the neighborhood I grew up in is. One day in South Side would set him straight.”

“Beth’s father?”

“Yeah, Beth’s father, asshole.”

He snorts out a laugh. “Relax, just a fuckin’ question. He a good guy? He treat you okay?”

The concern is sweet, even if Mickey can’t look her in the eye while he’s expressing it. It’s a hell of a lot more than she’s ever going to get from anyone else in her family. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. He’s a little scared of me. I like it that way.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Sure, good, fine, _lovely_ ,” she laughs, teasing him a little. “So what’s up with you and Ian, huh? He got all weird on me when I tried to pry the details out of him.”

“Jesus, do we really have to jump right into _that_?” Mickey groans. “I don’t want to talk about him. We haven’t seen each other in fuck knows how many years. I’m sure we can find something else to talk about.”

“We probably could, but I want to talk about him, so oh well.”

Mickey glares at her. The look would probably be enough to scare someone else shitless, but she just props her chin on her folded hands and glares back. “It’s complicated.”

“If you think you’re getting away with just an _it’s complicated,_ you’re fucking insane,” Mandy warns. “I don’t know what you two are waiting for, especially you. Jesus, have you seen Ian lately? I would’ve put a ring on that ages ago.”

Mickey's eyes go wide. “I’ve only been out of prison for a couple of months. Give me a second to fucking breathe before I go proposing to my ex, alright?”

“He was visiting you in prison, wasn’t he?”

“I mean, yeah, but we weren’t together then or anything. We just talked about boring shit.” Mandy rolls her eyes, and Mickey scoffs at her. “What exactly was I supposed to do? Seduce him from behind the plexiglass?”

“Hell yeah. If it were me, I would’ve been shaking my ass at him or something. Those pervy guards probably wouldn’t have cared. Might’ve worked, too. When you were still _the mystery boyfriend_ instead of my grumpy brother, Ian used to go on and on about how perfect your ass was. Once I figured it out, he kept his mouth shut. Those were images I did not need.”

Mickey groans again, burying his face in his hands. “Jesus, he used to talk to you about me? I hate that you guys are friends.”

“Oh yes. All the time. You were all that boy could think about.”

A smile tugs at Mickey’s lips again. “You should try the pie,” he says, pointing to her untouched plate. “It really is pretty good.”

“It looks good, but Ian already stuffed me with pancakes.”

“Wait, that fucker made you pancakes?” Mickey nearly shouts. “Are you serious? Every time I ask for pancakes, there’s no mix to be found.”

“ _Ooh_ , you two are having sleepovers then, huh?” Mandy asks, waggling her eyebrows. “Maybe he finally bought pancake mix hoping you’d sleep over again. There were even chocolate chips in them. Nothing more romantic than that.”

“Stop that. I’m serious. I will literally give you everything I have in my wallet if we can talk about anything else,” Mickey offers. “I mean, that’s only like five bucks, but—”

“I’m just trying to help,” she admits, her tone more thoughtful. “I can barely get anything out of Ian, and that never means anything good. He’s seemed off lately, and it kind of freaked me out. He second-guesses himself a lot, but he’s not going anywhere this time, if that’s what you’re afraid of. He’s not going to run away again. Even if he does, he’ll come back.”

Mickey bites the corner of his lip and looks away from her again. “You can’t know that.”

“Sure, I can. I _know_ Ian. Sometimes I think I know Ian better than I know me.”

“You two still talk a lot then?”

“A few times a month, yeah.”

“We uh—if you wanted to, you know, we could, maybe—”

Mandy throws her phone across the table at him. The thud cuts off his fumbled attempt at a sentence, and he raises his eyebrows at her like she’s gone crazy. “I’ve already got your number, from Ian. Text yourself from my phone, loser. I’ve had virgins ask me for my digits smoother than that.”

Mickey flips her off and mutters something under his breath that it’s probably for the best she doesn’t hear, but he sends the text as directed. “Fine, there,” he says, throwing it gracelessly back at her, so it lands with another crash. “Now we can talk too, in between you gossiping about me with your boyfriend.” There’s the tiniest hint of jealousy in his voice that makes her smirk. She considers telling him that she never stood a chance at coming first with Ian, not after Mickey came barreling into the picture to steal his heart, but she’s not sure the thought would come out as lighthearted as she’d want it to. “So did you just come here to play matchmaker or what?”

“It’s one of my missions, sure,” she says. “I also wanted to see my favorite brother and my best friend. That too much to ask?”

“Favorite brother would probably be a lot more impressive if any of our brothers were actually worth a damn.” His fingers start fidgeting the same way Lip’s had earlier, practically screaming out for a cigarette. It’s comforting to know that she’s not the only who hasn’t managed to kick her nicotine habit. “Iggy’s still running drugs, but he’s alright. He’d probably like to see you.”

“Then he can come out here, because I’m not going back to the house.”

“You went to the house?”

“Yup, and I’m never stepping foot in that place again. Don’t know how you stay there.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. It’s a shithole.” Mickey finally takes a bite of his pie and then washes it down with a swig of coffee. “I’m trying to find a new place.”

“Ian told me.”

“’Course he did,” Mickey gripes. “He’s got a big mouth.”

“I told him you should just move into his place.”

He scoffs at that. “Right, sure, great plan, Mandy,” he intones. “I’d give it maybe a week before I murdered Lip in his sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” She runs her fingertips around the edge of her coffee mug, as she considers her next words. “You could always just get your own place together, Lip-free. Get married, adopt a couple of kids, get a dog, and start gardening or something. You know, the whole nine yards, picket fence shit.”

Mickey huffs and drops his fork, sending it clattering down on to his plate. The look on his face is murderous, but Mandy can’t contain the smile blooming on her face. It probably doesn’t say great things about her, but she’s happy it’s still so easy to get a rise out of Mickey. She’s happy he’s still the same irritable, sulky, secretly sweet older brother she remembers.

“Alright, chill out, the m-word won’t kill you,” Mandy teases, when Mickey just continues scowling at her. “But, if you _do_ get married, I call dibs on best man.”

“Whose?”

“Yours, asshole.”

“Oh, come on, you’d be Ian’s best whatever.”

“Are you kidding? I’m pretty sure Lip would physically fight me for the title, and unless he’s wasted, he can probably take me. So it looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Mickey laughs, and the sound makes Mandy feels so much lighter than she had when she walked in. Suddenly, she couldn’t be happier with her decision to come back to Chicago. She realizes she doesn’t want to be the girl without a family anymore. She wants her daughter to know at least one of her uncles, she wants Jason to know the people that have always mattered to her, even when she was fleeing from them. If she ever has a wedding of her own, she wants Ian and her brother standing by her—Ian telling her how beautiful she looks and Mickey sneaking her cigarettes from the emergency supply in the pocket of his tux. She doesn’t want to feel like someone who's lived two separate lives anymore, New Mandy and Old Mandy. She just wants to be Mandy.

“I’m not going to run away again either, you know.” Mickey stops laughing and swipes at his bottom lip again. “I want you to be in my life. Whether you and Ian end up together or not, I want you in my life. If you want me in yours.”

Mickey takes a deep breath before swallowing thickly and running his sleeve quickly over his eyes. “Yeah, ‘course I do.”

“Good,” she says, kicking his shin under the table. He flips her off, and she answers with a middle finger of her own. “It’s good to see you, assface.”

“You too, fuckhead.”

She’s about to suggest they take off when Mickey reaches over the table and does something that somehow shocks her even more than Ian drunkenly confessing he was fucking her brother once had. He grasps her hand with his own and squeezes it. It’s a quick gesture. His hand is gone almost as quickly as it arrived, but it’s so incredibly sweet, she almost wants to cry.

“Hey, Mickey. When we stand up, I’m gonna hug you, for like a long time. Just a warning.”

Mickey shoots her an unimpressed look, as he finishes off his coffee. “Yeah, alright. Just shut up and eat your damn pie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I was happy to finally introduce Mandy to the story.
> 
> Next up is Ian again. :)


	14. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But their lives are different now. He thinks they might finally be strong enough to face whatever shit the universe decides to throw at them, together.

Ian wakes up slowly at first and then all at once. He shoots up straight in his bed, breathing hard and fighting the urge to immediately grab for the baseball bat hidden under his bed. He takes a moment to decide if the persistent knocking he hears is real or just part of some annoying new meds-induced dream. When the knocking doesn’t cease, he finally groans and gets up, cursing out his brother under his breath. Lip does this every now and then, shows up in the middle of the night drunk off his ass and pounds on the door like an asshole, having lost his keys somewhere. Lesser things than Lip running into one of his ex-girlfriends have sent him on a bender, so Ian isn’t really surprised that this is another one of those nights.

But it’s not Lip waiting outside for him when he throws open the front door, a disapproving scowl firmly in place. “Ian! Finally! It’s fuckin’ cold out here,” Mandy exclaims, her voice higher-pitched than usual. She throws herself forward to wrap her arms around his waist and press her face into his chest. “Sorry we’re late!” She pulls back and smiles up at him, her face bright red and shiny. “Was out catching up with the big bro here. Gettin’ drunk. Talkin’ about you.”

“Jesus, Mandy. We talked about other shit, too.” Mickey is standing behind her, looking equally flushed and sweaty. He’s shaking his head at his sister, but there’s an entirely unrestrained grin on his face that makes Ian smile right along with him despite having just been startled out of sleep.

“Thought you guys were Lip finally wandering home from wherever the hell he is,” Ian says, backing up to let them inside. “I just figured you two decided to crash at your house or something.”

“Nah, fuck that fuckin’ house,” Mandy grumbles, brushing past him. “You got any good food in this place, Gallagher? I’m dying. We begged Kev for some French fries, but he kept bitching about not wanting to give us food poisoning or whatever." 

Before Ian can answer, Mickey grabs his arms and tugs at them until their bodies are almost pressed together. Heat is radiating from him. When Ian rests his hand against Mickey’s cheek, his skin is hot to the touch. “Had some fun, huh?” Ian laughs, his voice still a little hoarse with sleep. Mickey just smirks and starts running his hands down the front of Ian’s white t-shirt and then around the waistline of his boxers. Ian lets out a quiet gasp when Mickey’s fingers slide under his shirt and skim over the bare skin of his stomach. He tries to ignore the tug low in his gut and the impulse to slam Mickey back against the door and answer those touches with roaming hands of his own. “You know your sister’s like five feet away, right?”

The reminder does nothing to hinder Mickey's exploration. When his hands slip around Ian's back and then fall down to cup Ian’s ass, he can’t stop the startled laugh that erupts for him. “What’s gotten into you?” he asks, brushing back some damp hair from Mickey’s forehead. “You doing okay?”

“’M good,” Mickey mumbles. “’M great, actually.” He leans forward and presses his lips against the skin at the juncture of Ian’s neck and shoulder. “You smell really good.”

Mickey inhales loudly, and Ian can’t help but giggle. “Oh, really? Well, you smell like a bar.”

“ _Mm_ ,” Mickey hums against Ian’s neck, causing goosebumps to break out across his skin. “’Cos I was at a bar. The bar. The uh—the fuckin’ Alibi. Some weirdo with a soul patch kept hittin’ on Mandy. Was fun though. Kev’s still givin’ me free drinks. Got  _real_  drunk.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Ian places one hand on Mickey’s hip and drags the other down the back of his thin jacket, fingers gliding over his spine. “I’m glad you guys had fun.”

“Would’ve been better if you were there. Missed ya.”

Ian’s stomach does a silly little flip at that. “Missed you too. I’ll come next time. Might not be able to keep up with you two hooligans if you’re staying out this late though.”

Mickey starts nodding but then pulls away from him abruptly, narrowed eyes darting around Ian’s face with a considerably more serious expression than a moment ago. “Wait, are you—you okay?” he asks, frowning. “Shit, we woke you up, right? We fuckin’ with your meds? Shit.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ian says. “It’s fine. Really. Living with Lip, it happens sometimes.” He reaches out to hug Mickey close again, but Mickey backs up even further.

Mickey splays a hand over Ian’s chest to hold him at arm's length then squints his eyes and continues looking his face and then body over, like he expects to find some essential piece of him out of place. “But you—you’ve felt sick. Fuck, we’re being assholes. We should’ve—”

“Shut up, he’s fucking fine! Stop nagging him, and let’s have some fun!” Mandy suddenly yells out from the kitchen, making both him and Mickey jump. “Also, if you two horny douchebags could stop feeling each other up like I’m not here, that’d be swell. The sexual tension in here is fucking suffocating." Not even a second later, the sound of something heavy crashing to the ground rings out through the apartment, and Ian winces. He turns around to find Mandy sheepishly pushing his blender back into its proper place. When he just smiles at her, she grins back and admits, “Was thinking about making margaritas.”

“The only ingredients I’ve got for margaritas are maybe ice and salt.”

“Seriously? No tequila? You’re no fun anymore.” Mandy sighs but then perks up again and pulls a small baggie out of the back pocket of her jeans with two joints inside. She shakes it in front of him and smirks. “Some guy hanging out by the bathrooms sold them to me. Mind if I smoke in here?”

“Go for it. Want me to make you guys something?”

“Yes, god, I’m fucking starving. You’re the best.” Mandy pecks him on the cheek before hopping past him and settling down on to the living room couch. She lights up one of the joints, as Mickey ambles over to the kitchen and leans his elbows against the counter.

“You’re sure—?”

“I’m  _fine_.”

Mickey bites the corner of his lip and looks down at his hands. “Sorry, man. Woke you up in the middle of the fuckin’ night just to nag at ya.”

“You’re not nagging,” Ian assures him, tapping his fingers under Mickey’s chin until he looks up. “You just care. I like it.” He’s relieved when the bright smile from earlier reappears on Mickey's face. “So, food. Let’s see, we’ve got—”

“Pancakes.”

Ian raises an eyebrow. “Pancakes?”

“Yeah, asshole, I heard you made  _her_ ,” he begins, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “pancakes. Which is fuckin’ bullshit, Gallagher. I've been asking for pancakes for  _weeks_.”

Ian laughs out loud and shakes his head. “Ain’t making you pancakes at three in the morning, Mick. You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow morning for those.” Mickey scrunches up his nose and holds up his middle finger before letting out an impressively vulgar burp. Ian starts laughing again and soon Mickey joins in with him. “Classy, Mick. Real classy,” Ian teases. “Now go sit your ass down, and I’ll bring you guys pizza rolls or something.”

Mickey follows the order, walking over to the couch and leaving Ian alone in the kitchen. Ian throws the last of their frozen pizza rolls inside the microwave to cook. As he’s waiting, he watches Mandy and Mickey together. They’re laughing to themselves, with lazy grins on their faces. When Mandy offers him the joint, he turns her down and she rolls her eyes dramatically, making them both laugh even harder. The sight of them side by side, looking so happy and relaxed, makes Ian feel warm inside. These two oddballs, with their hard exteriors and gentle hearts, still mean so much to him and he can’t believe he finally has them both back in his life.

“I’m gonna love being the best man for both of you losers at your wedding,” Mandy calls out loud enough that Ian can hear her. “Gonna get myself one of those lady tuxes. V thinks I can pull it off. I’m gonna look awesome.”

The word  _wedding_ makes Ian instantly tense up. He glances nervously over to Mickey to gauge his reaction, but he stills looks just as calm as before. “Lip would take great offense to that, you know,” Ian responds cautiously. “He can be surprisingly sentimental about this kind of thing. Been talking about being the best man at my gay wedding for a while.”

“Oh, whatever. Ain’t scared of him. I’ll fight him for it.”

“Don't worry, I’ll get him wasted first, so you can take him,” Mickey chimes in. “Might even help you out. Don’t want that asshole glaring at me while I’m saying my ‘I do’s’ anyways.”

“Think it’s ‘I will’ now,” Mandy corrects. “Pretty sure I saw it on TV or something. Hey, maybe—”

“The fuck ever,” Mickey interrupts. “It’s our wedding, ain’t it? We say whatever the fuck we feel like saying. ‘I do’ sounds better.”

_It’s our wedding._ Ian feels his mouth fall open, and his heart starts to beat a little faster. He’s blown away by Mickey’s willingness to go along with this kind of joke, willingness to go anywhere near the subject of marriage at all. But here he is, sitting right in front of Ian, smiling away and laughing about saying  _I do_. Saying  _we_ like isn’t a huge deal, like it isn’t scary as hell.

Ian clears his throat and places their food on the table. “Here you guys go,” he says, before taking his own seat on the armchair. “Try not to make a mess.”

They immediately start scarfing the pizza rolls down and whining to each other about how hot they are. Ian can’t bring himself to eat with them or even join in on the conversation. All he can do is watch them and try not to get his hopes up too high. He tries not to think about Mickey in a suit, staring back at him and grinning like he’s grinning right now, as some Justice of the Peace declares them husbands. He tries not to think about Mandy and Lip standing up there with them, sniping at each other playfully. He tries not to think about Mickey holding his hands and kissing him softly in front of everyone.

It’s nothing short of a fucking miracle that they’ve all managed to find their way back to each other after so many years apart that he knows it would be foolish to start hoping for more now. There are so many ways things can still go wrong for them, so many ways Ian can still manage to ruin everything again. He doesn’t want to get too far ahead of himself, like he always seems to do. He just wants to live in this moment for now, content to have his two closest friends back in his life. It’s safer that way.

 

* * *

 

After tucking Mandy in on the sofa, Ian shuffles sleepily back to his bedroom with an equally exhausted-looking Mickey close at his heels. The moment he hears Mickey shut the door behind them, he collapses face-first on to his bed and groans into his pillow. “You guys are so fucking lucky I don’t have work tomorrow morning.”

Ian twists around until he’s comfortably under his blankets at one edge of the bed. He expects to feel the dip of Mickey getting in on the other side, but it never comes. When he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to find Mickey’s still standing by the door, running his hand over his lip and looking intently down at his own feet. “You okay?” 

“We gotta talk.”

Ian’s stomach drops, and he suddenly feels wide awake. He can probably count the number of times  _we have to talk_ hasn’t meant something horrible has happened on one hand. Whatever it is Mickey has to say, Ian’s almost certain he doesn’t want to hear it. Especially now, after such a good night. “You’re drunk,” Ian says. “We can talk in the morning.”

“Nope. Wanna talk now.”

“Mick—”

“I was being a pussy. The other night. When talked about everything. Trying to make you promise shit and all that.” Mickey shifts his weight between his feet. “I’m sorry.”

_Oh._ Ian sits up, letting his legs hang off the side of the bed. He turns on his bedside lamp, so he can make out the look on Mickey’s face better. He’s still focusing on his feet, but Ian can see the furrow of his brow and the way his teeth are worrying at his bottom lip. “Please don’t be sorry. I get it. I know I’m a risk,” Ian starts, wringing his hands together on his lap. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to jump right into things again. I really don’t. I know who I am, what I did. I know it’s not easy. I never expected it to be easy.”

“It  _is_  easy though,” Mickey argues, sounding slightly exasperated. “Loving you. That’s never not been easy. Scariest and easiest thing in the world at the same time. It’s just figuring out what the hell to do about it that’s always been really fucking hard.”

Ian wants to latch on to that semi-declaration of love and never let it go. He wants to grab Mickey and kiss him until all of the doubts that are still keeping them apart have disappeared. But he stays still, unable to shake the feeling they should probably be having this conversation when they’re both sober and considerably more awake. “We can talk in the morning,” he says again. “I promise. It will be better that way.”

Mickey huffs and finally looks up to glare at him. “Just let me talk, Gallagher. Might not be able to say this in the morning.”

Ian takes a deep breath and then nods. “Okay.”

“I don’t give a shit you’re a—a risk or whatever,” Mickey begins, jabbing a finger out in Ian’s direction. “Don’t fucking care. Don’t give a flying shit. Just wanna be with you. Like, for real. For as long as I can. Just want  _you_.”

“Mickey, I—”

Mickey doesn’t give Ian the chance to finish that thought. Before Ian can even figure out what he intends to say, Mickey is lunging forward and cupping his face between his hands. Then he’s crashing their lips together and pressing Ian down into the mattress. Their bodies slide against each other's, as the kiss intensifies. When Mickey pulls back, Ian feels hot and breathless. With a low whine, he rocks up and captures Mickey’s lips again. There have been hints of hesitation and uncertainty lingering behind most of their kisses since they started dating, but Ian can’t detect any of that tonight. It feels like they’re teenagers again, getting lost in each other and the feeling of skin against skin.

“Where’d that come from?” Ian breathes against Mickey’s lips.

Mickey’s hand runs up Ian’s neck and then stops on his cheek. Their eyes are locked together, barely even blinking, as Mickey’s thumb brushes over Ian’s cheekbone. “Mandy kept joking about our wedding all night. Everyone was getting in on it. V was picking out our colors and talking about venues. Kev wants to fucking officiate. Think they were trying to get a rise out of me, for fun, but it—it didn’t freak me out, not as much as I thought it would, at least. I could—I realized I could fuckin’ picture it, you know? Wearing a tie and shit. Being with you. Didn’t scare me. Just felt—it seemed nice. Like something I might wanna do someday. Is that stupid?”

“No, that’s not stupid at all,” Ian whispers back.

It feels like there are fireworks going off in his gut. He can’t look away from Mickey’s face. He looks vulnerable and hopeful at the same time. Ian wants to tell him that it doesn’t scare him either, that it’s something he might want to do someday as well, but it feels like he barely breathe, let alone actually speak. Ian has hardly allowed himself to even  _think_  about these things, so afraid of hoping for too much or moving too fast.

“Figured if that didn’t scare me, then why should just wanting to be with you scare me, you know? I want to be together.” Ian still can’t bring himself to respond. His tongue feels heavy, like it’s too big for his mouth. “You don’t gotta say anything back,” Mickey says. “I just wanted to say it now before I could pussy out of it tomorrow." 

“I want that too,” Ian finally tells him, finding his voice. He snakes his arms around Mickey’s waist and pulls him tight against him until it almost feels like they’re one person. “I want you to be my boyfriend again. I’ve wanted that since I saw you standing outside Rosa’s that day. I’ve just been scared as fuck to tell you.”

Mickey kisses him again. It’s slower this time, sweet and deliberate. There’s cigarette smoke and whiskey on his lips. It’s a taste so distinctly  _Mickey_  that Ian finds himself licking deeper into his mouth, wanting more and more. When Mickey moans, Ian’s sure it has to be the most beautiful sound in the world.

After what could have been minutes or hours or days as far Ian knows, Mickey moves his lips to Ian’s neck instead. A few soft kisses later, Mickey speaks again, his words ghosting over Ian’s ear. “So, you my boyfriend now or what?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m your boyfriend,” Ian confirms, a grin stretching across his face. “But I hope you know, I’m gonna bring this little conversation up when you’re sober tomorrow.”

Mickey groans and flops off of him, settling in on the other side of the bed. “Can’t we just leave it? Why we always gotta have a heart-to-heart about everything?”

Ian turns on to his side and smiles down at him. “I like our heart-to-hearts.”

“Fine. Can we at least fuck after?”

Ian nips at the edge of Mickey’s jaw and then kisses the slightly reddened patch of skin. “We can fuck  _all day_ afterwards. I’d fuck you right now if I weren’t about to pass out.”

Mickey chuckles under his breath and nods in agreement. “I really kinda want to blow you, but I don’t know how the hell I’m even still keeping my eyes open.”

“Your eyes are closed, Mick,” Ian laughs.

“Shut up. No, they’re not.”

“Yup, they definitely are. But it’s okay,” he says, kissing Mickey’s forehead. “We can save the blowjobs for tomorrow. Along with the pancakes.”

“Oh god,” Mickey sighs. “Pancakes and blowjobs. I’m gonna have the best fucking dreams tonight.”

“Sweet dreams for my sweet  _boyfriend,_ ” Ian says, running a hand up Mickey’s arm.

“Stop being weird. Just because we’re boyfriends doesn’t mean you get to be weird." 

“I think that’s exactly what it means, actually.”

“Whatever,” Mickey mutters, as he pulls the blankets up around his chin. Ian watches on as Mickey squirms around underneath the covers for a few seconds until one of his hands finally emerges from his makeshift cocoon and throws his jeans off to the side of the room. “Turn the fucking light off and go to sleep.”

Ian shuts off the lamp and follows Mickey under the blankets. It only takes Mickey a few moments to roll over, draping his arm across Ian’s torso and laying his head on Ian’s chest. Ian feels warm and safe and more comfortable than he can remember feeling in ages.

He starts thinking about the first time he and Mickey slept together in a bed rather than just fucking in it. Ian had left the group home to spend the night at Mickey’s uncharacteristically empty house. That was first time Ian had ever really let himself hope that Mickey might love him back. They had started as far away from each other as they could manage on Mickey’s small bed, but Ian remembers Mickey’s arm suddenly wrapping around sometime in the middle of the night. He remembers how excited and lightheaded and wonderful that one touch had made him feel. And he remembers how it all came crashing down the next morning.

But their lives are different now. He thinks they might finally be strong enough to face whatever shit the universe decides to throw at them, together.

He’s just about to drift off back to sleep with that comforting thought on his mind, when he hears Mickey murmur something. It’s quiet, not even a whisper. Ian can’t be completely sure he’s heard him right or if it’s just wishful thinking messing with his senses, but it sounds a lot like  _I love you_.

 

* * *

 

The morning light streaming in through his windows wakes him up. He blinks his eyes open and stretches an arm out to the other side of the bed, expecting to find Mickey still sleeping next to him. When there’s only cold, empty sheets to be found, a spark of panic sends him floundering out of bed quicker than his still half-asleep body is quite ready for.

He trips over his own feet and bangs a knee roughly on his nightstand. “Goddamnit,” he grunts, rubbing the injured knee. He’s about to start feeling sorry for himself, when he notices Mickey’s jeans are still crumpled up on the floor and the sound of clanging pans from the kitchen reaches his ears.

_Mickey’s still here._  As he takes out his morning pills and swallows them down with the water bottle next to his bed, he can’t stop smiling. Because Mickey’s still here.

The apartment smells amazing, like coffee and bacon and something sweet. “Decided to just go ahead and make those pancakes yourself, huh?” he teases, as he walks over and sits on one of the stools. To his shock, Mickey is bustling around the kitchen in nothing but his boxers. Tattoos, both new and old, are on full display. Ian’s eyes drop to the name on his chest when Mickey turns around, but he swiftly snaps them back up to Mickey’s own.

“Damn right. I’ve always made them better than you anyways,” Mickey claims, as he pushes a plate with three stacked chocolate chip pancakes in front of him.

Ian gasps and holds his hand over his heart. “You take that back right now. You know pancakes is basically all I’ve got.”

“Your grilled cheese is mostly okay.”

“Oh, stop it, I’m swooning,” Ian drones, as he starts brushing butter over his pancakes.

“Can’t you just use syrup like a normal human being?”

“I like what I like.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “What you like is weird,” he states, as he turns around and plucks a mug from the cabinet. He sets it next to Ian's plate and pours fresh coffee inside. Ian feels almost giddy when Mickey then goes on to throw in a dash of skim milk and a spoonful of sugar, just the way he likes. “How you feeling? Tired?”

“Nah, I’m fine. ‘Specially now that I got coffee,” he answers, before taking a careful sip. When it turns out to be just the right temperature, he takes a much longer gulp until more than half the mug is emptied. “Thank you. For all of this.”

“No big deal,” Mickey says, shrugging. “Figured you’d need some caffeine and food, with me waking you up in the middle of the night. And your brother is  _definitely_ gonna need it." 

“Lip’s here?”

Mickey tilts his chin up, gesturing past Ian toward the living room. When Ian spins around on the stool, he’s less surprised than he’d like to be to find Lip sprawled out on the living room floor. He’s on his back, limbs stretched out like a starfish. His shirt is stained with something that looks distressingly like vomit and his jeans are unzipped. The snores roaring from him are so loud that Ian’s kind of astonished he hadn’t heard them all the way from his bedroom.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs, standing up. “Do you know what time he got back?”

“No idea. Mandy said she didn’t even hear him come in. She must’ve been dead to the world.”

“Where is Mandy? She’s not taking off until tonight, right?” Ian asks, as he gently lifts his brother’s head to slip one of the couch pillows under it. He then grabs the blanket Mandy used from the sofa and drapes it over him.

“She’s just at breakfast with Debbie.”

“Shit, did Debbie see him like this?” Ian remembers catching Debbie giving Frank her own pillow whenever he used to pass out on the floor. He never understood why she bothered, but lately it’s starting to make more sense to him. “It’d freak her out.”

Mickey shakes his head. “No, she didn’t come in. Just called when she was close. Wanted to take us all out, but I figured I should let you sleep.”

“Okay, good, thanks.” Ian kneels down and brushes a tissue over the corner of Lip’s mouth, wiping away some crusting puke. “That’ll be good for Debs anyways,” he adds, as he walks back over to the kitchen. “She doesn’t have many friends anymore. I think she has trouble trusting other women since her high school friends were such bitches to her. Doesn’t help that her and Fiona have had their own issues since the whole baby drama. Shit, do you even know about that?”

“That Debbie got pregnant?” Ian nods. “Yeah, she’s mentioned it a few times. Sucks.”

“Fiona’s the one who convinced her to give the baby up,” Ian continues. “I was zero help. I didn’t know what to say to her. She was clearly too young to be having a kid. And she’s smart. Not like Lip, I guess, but still smart. We all wanted her to go to college. But then I’d think about what my life would be like without Yevgeny in it, and I just—I never knew what to say to her.” Ian looks up to find Mickey staring at him with soft eyes. “Shit, sorry, that’s heavy shit for this early in the morning.” Ian cuts his fork through the stack of pancakes and takes a big bite. “Holy shit, you  _are_  better at making these than me.”

“Told you.”

“Whatever. I still maintain my grilled cheese is better than  _okay_.”

Mickey smirks but doesn’t argue. They eat quietly for a while, downing another few cups of coffee each, until Mickey breaks the silence. “So,” he starts, flicking his thumb over the side of his nose, “Are you guys worried about him or what?” He tilts his chin up toward Lip again.

Ian glances over his shoulder. His stomach clenches, as he takes his older brother in. It’s all he can do not to think about Frank lying across the floor of the old house in almost the exact same position. “I don’t know. He’s always been the stable one,” Ian admits. “Even when he was getting in fights or dating psychopaths or getting arrested, he still had more going for him than any of us ever did.” Lip’s the smart one. Lip’s the clever one, who always seemed to find a way to keep himself and the rest of them out of too much trouble. Fiona’s the one who raised them, but he thinks, in some ways, they’ve relied on Lip just as much. He’s resented how Lip tries to take care of him, how sometimes he treats Ian like a problem to be solved. But it’s even more disconcerting to see him be the one falling apart now, needing Ian’s help.

“Maybe it’s just a temporary thing,” Mickey suggests. “We’ve all gone on benders at some point. Nothing to make your problems go away like a few too many boilermakers.”

Ian’s been telling himself it’s just a shitty phase and nothing to worry about for too long for that to be true. Even with all of his success, Lip’s always had his own demons to contend with. They don’t talk as much as they used to as kids, not enough for Ian to know quite what those demons look like now. Ian’s not sure if Lip would tell him even if he asked, but maybe it’s about time he started trying.

“I’m sorry about last night, by the way,” Mickey says, pulling Ian’s attention away from Lip. “Waking you up and being weird and shit.”

“Don’t be sorry. I liked it.” He grasps the back of Mickey’s neck and pulls him across the counter until their lips meet. Ian might not like maple syrup on his pancakes, but he loves the way it tastes on Mickey’s lips. “Probably for the best Mandy and Debs went out. We should talk.”

Mickey clenches his jaw and works it back and forth. “You meant it when you said we were gonna have a heart-to-heart about this then?”

“You remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. All of it.”

_Did you mean what you said? Do you really want to be together? Can I call you my boyfriend?_ Those are all the questions Ian means to ask, but they’re not what comes out of his mouth when he responds. Instead, he blurts out, “I love you, too,” before promptly snapping his mouth shut again.

Mickey’s eyes go wide, and he just stares at Ian in that deer-in-the-headlights sort of way for the better part of a minute. By the time Mickey finally speaks again, Ian can feel his palms growing sweaty and the taste of iron filling his mouth because he’s biting down so hard on the inside of his cheek. “Shit, you heard that?”

“Yeah, I heard it. Did you—uh, did you mean it?”

Mickey swipes at his lip. “Yeah, I meant it.”

“I mean it, too,” Ian says, covering Mickey’s hand with his own. “I’ve felt that way since, like, basically forever. I’m sorry I never really said it though. When we were together.”

“It’s cool. Not like I made it easy for you to go around expressing your feelings and shit, did I, Firecrotch?” Mickey laughs softly. There’s a light blush spreading across his cheeks that might be the most endearing thing Ian’s ever witnessed.

“I also meant what I said last night, about wanting to be together. I want you to be my boyfriend again, if that’s what you want. I understand if—”

“Don’t,” Mickey cuts in. “Don’t go psyching yourself out. I want that just as much as you do.”

“You don’t think we’re moving too fast?" 

“Jesus, Ian, we’ve been a part of this strange, beautiful fucking mess with each other since we were teenagers. I don’t think it’s even possible for us to move too fast. We’ve been moving too fucking slow all these years, if anything,” Mickey answers. “And if we don’t know by now, we ain’t ever gonna fucking know, right? But I know.”

“I know, too.”

“Good. Then it’s done,” Mickey concludes, clapping his hands together and then holding them up. “We’re together. You and me. So we don’t gotta talk about it anymore.”

Ian snorts. “We have been doing a fuckload of talking lately, haven’t we?”

“Yeah, we have,” Mickey agrees. “It’s exhausting, man. I don’t know how your family is always blabbing away so much. Didn’t anyone ever tell you guys to shut up?”

“Oh, plenty of times,” Ian says. “We never listen though. Not the Gallagher way. A lot of people think it’s charming.”

Mickey scoffs and then grabs Ian’s mostly empty plate. He starts clearing off the counter and placing everything into the sink. When he begins washing the dishes, Ian stands up, walks around the counter, and then circles his arms around Mickey from behind. He balances his chin on Mickey’s shoulder and watches as his  _boyfriend_ scrubs a particularly stubborn plate.

“So, do we tell the kid?" 

“Jesus, what did I _just_ say about talking?”

“Just a question, Mick.”

“Yeah, we tell the kid,” Mickey says. “Next time he visits. Okay? You good now?”

“You’re sure this is what you want, right?”  _That I’m what you want?_  

Mickey sighs and gives up on the plate, letting it slide under the soapy water. “Just said I wanted to tell my son about us, didn’t I? What d’you think that means, huh?” He leans his head to the side until it’s resting against Ian’s. “Look, we’ve gone through a lot of shit, Ian. We’ve hurt each other, and we’ve fucked up. But we’re older and a lot less fucking stupid. If one of us fucks up again, we’ve got our shit together enough to deal with it. We can be okay without each other now, and I think that means we’re finally, you know, ready to  _not_  be without each other.”

_We can be okay without each other now._ Ian doesn’t want to think about a life without Mickey in it, but he knows he’s right. If Mickey were to leave him, he’d be devastated, but he’d push through it for his family, for Yevgeny, for Mandy, for himself. Lip and Fiona and Debbie wouldn’t let him fall apart again. They’d tell him if he needed to go to the doctor, and he’s almost certain he’d listen.

Ian hugs Mickey closer and kisses the spot just behind his ear. “I’m happy.”

“Me too, man.”

" _You_ make me happy." Before Mickey can say anything to that, Ian grasps his hips and spins him around, pinning him up against the sink. He holds Mickey’s face between his hands and kisses him hungrily, wanting every part of the man in his arms so much it hurts. He shivers when Mickey clings to him with wet hands, the water seeping quickly through the thin material of Ian’s t-shirt.

“You taste so good,” he says against Mickey’s neck, as he slips his hand between them to palm Mickey’s cock through his boxers. At the contact, Mickey lets out the most delicious moan. The sound makes Ian feel like he’s about to burst. He’s just about to suggest they move to the bedroom when he hears something clink against the counter.

“Jesus, what a way to wake up,” a voice behind them drones. They spring apart and look over to see Lip sitting just a few steps away, pouring himself coffee. “You have your own room, Romeo. With a door and everything,” he adds to Ian.

“When the fuck did you wake up?” Ian nearly shouts, moving closer to the counter, so his brother can’t see his erection. “How long’ve you been there?”

“Since you pushed Juliet here up against the sink,” Lip says, nodding to Mickey. “Wasn’t quite sure how to politely make my presence known after that.”

“So you just fuckin’ sat there and watched? Pervert,” Mickey snaps, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You got a room too, you know.”

“Yes, but my room doesn’t have coffee, which is the only thing I care about right now,” Lip says, as he pulls a flask out of the pocket of the jacket he’s still wearing. He tips it over, letting the last of its contents spill over into his mug. Ian wishes he wouldn’t, but he also doesn’t want to call him out on it in front of Mickey, who already looks more than a little annoyed. That would just be asking for a brawl. “What time is it?”

“Little past ten.”

“Really? Why’re you guys all up so early?” Lip complains, before taking a long swig of the spiked coffee. “It’s the fucking weekend.”

“Once I’m up, I’m up, you know that,” Ian says. He moves past Mickey and starts making Lip a plate for breakfast. He stacks on the last of the pancakes and then some bacon. When he sets it down in front of him, Lip grimaces and waves it away.

“Sorry, man, no can do.” He holds his forearm over his mouth and burps noiselessly. “Don’t feel like throwing up just yet. Saving it for later.”

“You alright?” Ian asks.

“Fine, why?”

“You passed out on the floor. Your room’s like eight feet away from where you dropped,” Mickey interjects. “Mandy accidentally stepped right on your face when she woke up, and you didn’t even budge.”

Lip narrows his eyes, and Ian can already tell he’s going to be defensive. “I’m a heavy sleeper,” he spits back. “The fuck do you care where I sleep in my own apartment? Don’t remember the announcement about you moving in.”

Mickey opens his mouth to retort, but Ian grabs his arm and steps between them before he can. “Where’d you go last night?”

“Dunno. Some bar with friends. It was kind of lame.” Lip shrugs and stops glaring at Mickey to focus on Ian instead. “But I met this crazy ass girl who could drink me under the fucking table. Then she literally got under the fucking table and blew me. Middle of a packed bar. I think I might love her.” 

“Jesus, that’s a theme with you, huh?”

“ _Mm_ , I guess so,” Lip says, smirking. “She was even blonde. Looked a little like Karen.”

“Good, that’s all the world needs. Another Karen Jackson,” Ian mocks, grabbing Lip’s mug to fill it up with more coffee that he hopefully won’t dilute with alcohol. “Did you get her number?”

“Nah, didn’t ask. Hey, you got anything for this?” Lip asks, holding up the cup.

“You mean like sugar?”

“No, I don’t mean like sugar, asshole.”

“Maybe you should lay off the booze for a little while,” Ian suggests mildly. “You’ve got that big project due next week and—”

“Lay off the booze, huh?” Lip muses. “Nah, that sounds fucking miserable,” he adds after a moment, with a short laugh. “I work better with it anyways. Helps me concentrate, gets my creativity flowing, you know?” After Lip’s met with nothing but silence, he looks up, glances between him and Mickey a couple of times, and then asks, “So what’s up with you two anyways?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mickey over here almost looks happy. It’s scaring me."

Mickey scowls at Lip, but Ian feels himself smiling. Mickey would probably prefer if he told Lip to shut up and mind his own business, but Ian wants to share the big news with his brother. He might not get the reaction he wants from Lip, but Ian’s excited, and he wants the people closest to him to know about it. “We’re official now,” Ian explains proudly, putting his arm around Mickey. “Have you met my  _boyfriend_  Mickey?”

Both Lip and Mickey roll their eyes at him at the same time. “Really? Is that all? Thought you two were already doing that.”

“Well, now we’re doing it  _officially_.”

“God, you’re such a dork,” Mickey says, nudging him in the ribs.

“You  _are_  a dork,” Lip agrees. “But I’m happy for you anyways. Congratulations,” he says, lifting up his coffee mug. “A toast to the happy couple. You guys doing anything to celebrate?” 

“Gonna fuck all day,” Mickey answers, startlingly casual. “Well, wait, shit, maybe not until later actually. Mandy and Debs will be back soon, and they probably expect us to hang out with them or whatever. But after Mandy leaves tonight, then we’ll start fucking and it probably ain’t gonna stop until one of us has to go to work. So, you know, fair warning.”

Lip gapes at him for a moment then sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m probably overdue for a night at the library anyways,” he says. “Thanks for the heads up, kids.” He hops down from the stool and starts walking toward his room. “Remember to use protection!” he calls out from his door. “Don’t wanna accidentally knock Mickey up. All this family needs is another unplanned pregnancy.”

Ian barks out a laugh while Mickey glares at the now closed bedroom door, shooting it the finger. “Your brother is such a dick.”

“Yeah, he kind of is. Still like him though.”

“Whatever.”

“Did I tell you he’s taking me to California at the end of the summer?” Ian asks. “He got invited to some fancy academic conference, so we don’t have to pay for the whole thing ourselves. Might come home with a tan. How’s that sound?”

“You’ve never had a tan in your life, Ian,” Mickey says, going back to the dishes. “If anything, you’re just coming back with more freckles, which—” Mickey pauses and turns around to look Ian up and down, “which would work for me.”

“Oh yeah? Got a thing for freckles?” Ian returns to his earlier position, wrapping his arms around Mickey and looking over his shoulder at the sink. “Want me to dry?”

“Nah, just uh—just stay like that, for now.”

“Okay. I can do that.” Ian kisses Mickey’s cheek and then his jaw and then the spot behind his ear again. “So we’re together, huh?”

Ian might not be able to see it, but he can feel the smile on Mickey’s face. “Yeah, Gallagher, we’re together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next up is the last new POV I'll be introducing to the story. :)


	15. Career Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s stuck, and it’s no one’s fault but his own. He’s backed himself up into a corner, and there’s no getting out of it now. Well, there’s no getting out of it still breathing, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's about a 5-month time jump between the last chapter and this one. It's referenced within the chapter, but I just wanted to make a note of it here as well.

By the time the house is finally in sight, Carl Gallagher’s shirt is drenched in sweat and his skin is turning pink from the early August sun. Catching the bus back from prison probably wasn’t his best decision, but he hadn’t wanted to bother his family or accept any more favors from the guys he’s working for now. No one forgets a favor on the streets. And no one ever lets a favor go unreturned. He figures he already owes enough for one lifetime. If he’s ever going to get out, he’s going to have to start offering favors instead of taking them.

It’s a relief to see the house. Such a relief, he thinks he would cry if crying were something he did. The charm of prison wore off within days of donning the orange jumpsuit. Prison wasn’t juvie. In prison, he sure as hell wasn’t top dog anymore. The lack of freedom starts to grate after a while, too. No one ever tells you just how humiliating it is to take a shit in front of a room full other dudes. No one ever tells you how demoralizing it is to have other people dictate every minute of your day, from when you wake up to when you get to piss to when you finally get to pass out on your shitty bed with some asshole who calls himself Big Bobby snoring loudly above you. No one ever tells you how lonely it is either, how only seeing your family a couple times a month from behind bulletproof glass wears you down. And no one ever tells you how disturbing it is to watch people get dropped or beaten half to death right in front of you or how you’ll see blood splattered across the walls every time you close your eyes. Or maybe they do tell you all of those things, and Carl just never bothered to listen.

In theory, it’d be nice to go straight, to not have to worry about putting on that orange jumpsuit again or seeing another one of his friends taken out. But the theory breaks down pretty quickly when Carl starts considering how he’d be able to make money without the drugs. What kind of actual job would he even be qualified for at this point? Two stints in juvie, a couple of drug convictions on his record, and an eighth grade education—at best—does not an ideal employee make. He’d be lucky if someone even let him clean out porta-potties for minimum wage at this point.

He’s stuck, and it’s no one’s fault but his own. He’s backed himself up into a corner, and there’s no getting out of it now. Well, there’s no getting out of it still breathing, anyways. It doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should. He knows his family will be fine without him. They’ve never depended on him for anything, because he’s never been dependable. They’ve never counted on him for anything, because he’s never really had anything to offer. Fiona takes the money he sends once a month, and that will have to be enough. If someone does drop him, he’s already got plans in place for all the money he’s got stashed away to go to her. It’s probably more than he ever could have done for them alive anyways.

Everything looks the same when he walks inside. Same old lumpy couch with the afghan draped over the back. Same shitty television. Same stained and cigarette-burned rug. It even smells the same, like coffee, warm beer, and something cheesy in the oven.

The clang of dishes directs his attention to the kitchen. Debbie’s leaning over the sink, humming some song he doesn’t recognize under her breath. Her hair’s shorter than he remembers it being last time they saw each other. She looks happier, too. The smile on her face, as she sways to her own music, makes him feel like he’s been punched in the gut. He never realizes how much he misses his family until he comes home, until he sees them like this and thinks about how he could come downstairs and see Debbie every day if he could stop being such a fuckup.

“Hey, dumbass.”

Debbie jumps and drops the dish in her hands. “Holy shit! Carl!” she exclaims. “When did you get out?” She wipes off her hands on her t-shirt and then bounds over to him, throwing her arms around his neck. “You could’ve called, you know,” she adds, before he can answer. “We would’ve planned something.”

“Just got out this morning. Took the bus.”

Debbie smacks him hard on the chest with the back of her hand. “One of us would’ve picked you up, douchebag.”

Carl shrugs. “You guys got enough to do.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Debbie grumbles. “Gave up my own kid just to end up raising yours with Fiona. Kid’s a little shit. Now that she can get around on her own, she’s driving me insane. Always tossing herself all over the place, trying to get into trouble. Takes after you.”

_Jesus, let’s hope not_ , Carl thinks, cringing. But with Carl and Bonnie’s genes, the kid probably never stood a chance of being normal. “Whatever,” he says. “Get a hobby or a boyfriend or something. Before you turn into a crazy cat lady.”

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t have a cat.”

“ _Yet._ ”

“Maybe I’d have time to meet a guy if I wasn’t taking care of _your_ kid,” she snaps.

Her eyes are narrowed and lips pressed into a hard line. It’s a familiar expression, one he’s been on the receiving end of more than he could ever possibly count. It hurts him almost as much as the smile had. It hurts how much he misses her sometimes. He never understood how close he was to his annoying, weird, drama queen of an older sister until they weren’t able to talk every day. He should tell her that—that he’s missed her, that he misses talking to her. But he won’t. He’s not sure he knows how. 

He drops his meager bag of belongings to the floor and then collapses on the couch. He should change out of his sweat-drenched shirt, but it feels so good to relax into the old, sunken cushions, he decides it can wait. “So, how’s the rest of the gang?”

Debbie sighs—never a good sign—and sits on the armchair. “Relatively stable, I guess. Nothing too serious. Lip’s a semi-functional alcoholic. He hasn’t quite crossed over into Frank territory yet, but Ian keeps finding him passed out on their living room floor, so it’s getting there.” Carl nods, not exactly surprised by the news. “And Fiona might be dating Sean again. Neither of them will give me a straight answer about it, but I can tell. She keeps coming around, pretending she likes the coffee. The coffee sucks. I just hope she doesn’t fuck it up again and get me fired.”

“Sean’s alright,” Carl says. “At least it’s not Jimmy-Steve. Or one of those other assholes.”

“I guess, but my paycheck never relied on Jimmy or the other assholes.” Debbie leans her head back against the chair, and the light catches on her face. There are shadows under her eyes that Carl has to look away from. “I’m single and boring, as you were so kind to point out already. Nothing new to report. Ian and Mickey are pretty domestic lately, so that’s good.”

“Still can’t believe those two got back together.”

“I can,” Debbie says simply.

“How the fuck did that end up happening?” he asks. “I thought Ian was done with him and serious with that prissy artist guy. Then suddenly he shows up announcing him and Mickey are going at it again. Fucking weird.”

“Bet he worded it nicer than that,” she laughs. “He broke up with Abe before Mickey got out,” she explains. “I don’t really know what went down with them though. You know how Ian is. Getting anything out of him is like pulling teeth, and Mickey’s even worse. Just tells me to mind my own fucking business if I try to ask. Lip tried to mess it up for them at first, but they figured it out. He works at the diner with me now.”

“Who? Ian?”

“No. Mickey.”

“Mickey works at Patsy’s Pies? You’re shitting me.” That shocks Carl so much he’s sure it can’t be right. There were always stories going around the prison about not fucking with the Milkovich boys, about how Mickey had fucked up a guy _bad_ for messing with him once. There were also rumors about him being a fag but that didn’t stop people from being worried about getting their asses kicked. Even before prison, Mickey had always been a badass. Carl just can’t picture him in that stupid gray shirt with an apron around his waist or some shit like that.

“Yeah, started out as a busboy, but he works in the kitchen sometimes now,” Debbie answers. “They’ve been back together for over five months, I think. I mentioned possibly throwing them a six-month anniversary party the other day, and Mickey threatened to murder me in my sleep, so I’m _definitely_ doing it.”

Carl snorts out a laugh, even though his mind is still busy trying to imagine Mickey clocking into a tedious job every day, waiting on the dumb assholes who frequent that place without ripping their heads off. Crime has its downsides, sure, but he can’t imagine letting go of the money and power and unpredictability of it all to work at that lame restaurant for pennies.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know. You just got out of prison. It’s a fair question.”

“Come on, I fuckin’ own that place,” Carl laughs, hoping he sounds convincing. “Met some new connections, too. Gonna make business a lot smoother.”

Debbie’s lips press together again and she rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Carl, you’re gonna go right back to it then? Don’t you need to get a real job for your parole? If you wanted, I could talk to Sean about—”

“If you think I’m gonna work at that diner, you’ve lost your mind,” Carl interrupts. “I’ve got this, Deb. Already got some bullshit job lined up that will keep my parole asshole off my back. Ain’t getting arrested again. Learned a lot in the joint.”

“Sure, whatever.” She stands up and walks back to the kitchen. “At least you don’t have those braids anymore. You looked ridiculous.”

Carl runs a hand through his long hair. It’s damp with sweat, just like his clothes. He misses the braids sometimes, but he hasn’t thought about getting them done again since some guy held him down on the floor, threatened to kill him, and started trying to tear them right out of his head. “It was time for a change.”

Debbie huffs, and he knows exactly what she’s thinking. There are bigger changes he should be making than his hairstyle, but he’s not sure she appreciates just how hard those changes would be. He expects her to push him more, to try to talk up the diner like she had the last time she came to visit, but she stays quiet. The lack of nagging should come as a relief, but it just leaves him feeling hollow. When people stop pushing you, he’s pretty sure that means they’ve given up. 

A piercing shriek rings through the house, making Carl flinch. “The fuck is that?”

“ _That_ ,” Debbie says, “is your kid. She’s got an impressive set of lungs on her, and she’s not afraid to use them.”

The crying continues unabated. He’s tempted to just walk outside and not come back until it stops. He doesn’t know how anyone could listen to that sound for more than a few minutes without going insane. He doesn’t remember Liam ever crying that loudly. “Someone gonna do somethin’ about it or what?”

Debbie puts her hands on her lips and cocks an eyebrow at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“What? You guys just leave it to cry like that?”

“ _Her_ ,” Debbie corrects, through clenched teeth. “Her. Not it.”

“What-the-fuck-ever—”

“No, not whatever,” she snaps. “That crying ball of snot and shit is _your_ kid, whether you like it or not. Don’t act like you don’t know what to do with a screaming kid. You’ve taken care of Liam before. Go upstairs, pick her up, and see what she needs. Even your dumb ass can handle that.”

“But I—” He pauses, quickly sifting through the list of excuses forming in his mind. _I’ve got to go, got some business to attend to. I’ve gotta take a real shower and pass the fuck out. I don’t wanna be around a crying kid._ “I don’t know what to do with a baby,” is the one he settles on. “I’ll just fuck it up. Drop it or something.”

“You’ll figure it out. I managed to.” Debbie grabs a worn-out looking bag from the table and slings it over her shoulder. “I’m meeting Ian. He’s, uh, he’s gonna come with me to look at a school. It’s not a big deal. Might not even happen,” she tacks on quickly, before Carl can comment on it. “I’ll bring him back with me, so be around later, okay? He’ll want to see you. And good luck with the kid. Just don’t drop her on her head, and you’ll be fine.”

Carl groans and opens his mouth to protest again, but Debbie just flips him off and disappears out the back door, slamming it behind her.

“Damnit,” he mutters, looking toward the stairs. Another wail rings out. “Goddamnit.”

 

* * *

 

It’s unsettling how much this kid— _Sasha_ , he reminds himself, _her name is Sasha, after Bonnie’s dead grandmother_ —looks like him. Her hair is dark brown and her eyes are blue and she’s got the same round face and button nose. There isn’t much of Bonnie in there that he can see, except maybe the chin. Sasha’s face leaves little doubt that Bonnie was telling the truth when she left the baby on the Gallagher doorstep and took off.

“If you want her to stop crying, you’re gonna have to actually pick her up, not just stare at her.” He turns to see Fiona leaning in the door frame, beaming at him. “Give me a hug first though.” She opens her arms and beckons him forward. He lets out a sigh, like she’s putting him out, but the truth is he needs that hug more than she does. When she pulls him into her arms and holds him tight, it’s the safest he’s felt since his first stint in juvie. “You look good, bud. I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah,” Carl mumbles. He doesn’t say anything else, because he’s not sure he can without his voice betraying just how much he’s missed her too.

“Let me calm her down a little first,” Fiona offers, brushing past him. She picks Sasha up and bounces her gently. “She’s talking a little now,” she says, as she makes silly faces for Sasha. “Not too much, but she says _Fi_ sometimes. And _Debba_ for Debs, and _Een_ for Ian, which is fuckin’ adorable, let me tell you. Frank’s been trying to teach her his name, but she refuses to say it. Got a good head on her shoulders.”

“Jesus, Frank’s still around?”

“Yep, clean and sober and annoying as fuck. Thought it’d only last a few weeks, but it’s been almost a year now. None of us know what to make of it.”

“Won’t last forever,” Carl mumbles.

“Nah, it won’t,” she agrees. “So, you staying? As a warning, Chuckie’s still livin' here, so you’ll have to share a room with him. Or with Frank, I guess, if you’re desperate. Still can’t believe DCFS pawned him off on us after Sammi got convicted. Fuckin’ figures.”

There’s a spark of anger in his gut at the mention of Chuckie and Sammi. His fingers twitch, like they can’t decide if they want to curl up into fists or wrap themselves around a gun. It’s that twitching, that restlessness for violence that made him think he’d been made to work the corners, that no one would be able to touch him. He takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose. The spark begins to fade. He’d count backwards from ten too, like he taught himself, but Fiona’s already looking at him curiously. “He’s over eighteen now, ain’t he? Kick him out.”

“In age, maybe,” she says. “In mind, well, you know.”

“Still—”

“Sammi’ll be out soon,” Fiona says. “After that, he’s her problem. But I’m not throwin’ him out on the streets.”

“Fine, I’ll room with Frank,” he snaps. “Or just sleep on the couch. Don’t think I’ll be around much anyways.”

Fiona grimaces at that but swiftly goes back to making the funny faces. Soon, Sasha’s cries turn into giggles. “You wanna hold her now?”

He doesn’t answer, just looks down at his shoes. They’re scuffed up now. He’ll have to buy new ones, or the guys will definitely give him shit. “I really gotta—”

“Just for a minute,” Fiona insists gently. “She should meet her daddy.”

Carl wants to ask why it matters. Knowing their father never did them any good. Carl practically saved that asshole’s life when his liver kicked, and the only time Frank’s ever visited him in the last year was when he needed money to pay off some dumbass bet he’d made. Maybe it’s better Sasha doesn’t know him at all, that way she never has to be disappointed. She doesn’t need to know where the extra money’s coming from. She doesn’t need to know he exists at all.

“Come on,” his sister insists again, moving closer to him. “She’s a sweetheart. You were too, actually, once upon a time. Before you turned into a hellion.”

Carl suspects he’s not getting out of this room until he relents, so he grudgingly holds out his arms and lets Fiona hand her over. He expects Sasha to start crying again the moment Fiona lets go, but she doesn’t. She just looks up at him with wide blue eyes and makes a cute, gurgling sort of noise. Carl almost smiles.

“Say hello to Dada,” Fiona coos, brushing her hand over the back of Sasha’s head. “Can you say Dada?” _Dada_. That one stupid word scares the shit out of him. He doesn’t feel like a father, even now. He was already locked up when she got dumped on their doorstep. This is the first time he’s ever held her in his arms. If this is the magical moment it was all supposed to connect for him, the moment he was supposed to realize he loves his daughter, then he’s failed. It’s not a surprise though. He’s long suspected there’s something broken inside of him. “This is your Dada. Can you say Dada, Sasha?”

“Fi! Fi-Fi!” Sasha squeaks out instead, reaching out one of her pink, chubby hands to touch Fiona’s nose. When Fiona scrunches up her nose in response, Sasha starts giggling again.

“You see any of Bonnie in her? I’m sorry I never got to meet her.”

“Don’t think you would’ve liked her,” Carl says. “And not really, no. Maybe the chin.”

“Yeah, figured, she looks like a Gallagher through and through.” There’s pride in Fiona’s voice when she says that, like being a Gallagher isn’t a fucking curse. “You think she’ll ever show up wanting her back?”

He thinks about the last time he saw Bonnie. He was out on bail, but he knew there was no way he was avoiding prison time again. She was just passing through, stopping by on a whim on the way to wherever the hell she was going next. It was only one night. A night he would’ve liked to last forever. A night that left him with a piece of Bonnie forever, but not the piece he wanted, still wants sometimes. “I doubt it,” he answers honestly. “Maybe, if it’s on the way. But she won’t stay.”

“Not the type who stays, huh?”

That’s probably part of why Carl was so drawn to her. He hasn’t cared for many people who know how to stay. They know how to for family, maybe, but staying for someone else is a different challenge. Debbie might be able to, if she ever picked someone good enough for her. And maybe Ian, if his own brain didn’t insist on sabotaging him. But not him or Fiona or Lip. And certainly not Bonnie.

He’s about to ask Fiona to take Sasha back, when the kid suddenly grasps a loose strand of his hair and yanks down on it hard. He yelps and whips his head back, causing Fiona to laugh. “Yeah, she does that sometimes. Feisty one.”

“Jesus,” Carl mutters, when she pulls again. “That fuckin’ hurts.”

“Sure does.”

When she tugs a third time and smiles at him, dimples forming in her pudgy cheeks, he feels tears starting to push at the corners of his eyes. The small action reminds him more of Bonnie than anything else possibly could. He feels sick to his stomach and wishes Fiona would take her out of his arms. He’ll never have a life with room for Bonnie, even if she ever stopped running. He’ll never have a life with room for a kid, even one that smiles at him like this.

“Here,” he says, holding Sasha out to Fiona. “I gotta shower. I smell like ass.”

Fiona stares at him for a moment, her eyes traveling all around his face, before she nods. “You _do_ smell a little ripe. Hey, d’you want—?”

He bolts out of the room, not waiting to catch the end of her question, and into the bathroom. His breathing is quick and shallow when he closes the door behind him. He hacks out a cough and splashes some water from the sink on his face, trying to calm down whatever the fuck he’s feeling right now. “Fuck,” he curses to himself, when he glances up at the mirror and sees his own slightly bruised, ashen face looking back at him. “Fuck.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a strange noise coming from downstairs when Carl wakes up later that afternoon in Frank’s bed. The sheets smell like sweat and smoke, but he figured it was better that than letting Chuckie get the jump on him if he came wandering back to the house.

It’s been a long time since he’s been able to sleep comfortably. He’d like to go on doing it for another few hours at least, but the mystery noise doesn’t stop. Eventually, he gives up and throws some clothes back on to investigate.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, the first thing he sees is a familiar shock of bright red hair. His brother is sitting on the kitchen floor, looking under the sink with a flashlight and muttering something that Carl can’t quite make out. Somehow, he looks even taller than when Carl last saw him. It always feels like Ian’s getting taller, though Carl knows he probably hasn’t grown in years.

“Hi!”

The greeting, which definitely didn’t come from Ian, startles him so badly he nearly takes a dive off the last couple of stairs. “Jesus Christ!” he shouts, holding up his arms, ready to throw a punch or defend his head, whatever seems most likely to keep him from dying. But there’s only a kid staring at him with wide, frightened eyes when Carl turns toward the voice.

“Shit, Carl, it’s just Yevgeny.” That’s Ian’s voice. And that’s Ian’s hand squeezing his shoulder. It takes all of his strength not to flinch away from the touch, to remind himself that it’s just his older brother trying to help. “You okay, man?”

Carl takes a deep breath and then lets it pass through his nose. It’s a technique one of his prison buddies taught him to use when shit went bad. Can’t protect yourself properly when you’re bent over trying to catch your breath like a little bitch, after all. He starts his count backwards from ten too, his own trick, but the kid speaks before he can get to one.

“I’m sorry,” the young boy— _Yevgeny_ , Ian had said, Yevgeny is Mickey’s son with the mean Russian whore—whispers, looking thoroughly contrite. The kid’s practically chewing on his bottom lip and gripping so tightly to the book in his lap that his knuckles have gone white. The sight makes Carl feel like an asshole, to say the least.

“No, uh, don’t be sorry,” Carl finally manages to say, lowering his arms. “You just—I didn’t see you there.”

“Hey, seriously, you alright?”

Carl nods, as his breathing starts to slow back down to normal. “Yeah, man, I’m good,” he says, pulling Ian into a brief hug and clapping him on the back. “Good to see you.”

“You too!” Ian says, with a genuine grin. “Debs said you were probably upstairs, but I didn’t want to wake you up.” He pauses for a moment, looking back at the sink and then to Carl again. “Oh, shit, I did wake you up, didn’t I? Debs said the sink was being weird, so I, you know—”

“It’s cool, Ian,” Carl says. “I’m hungry as fuck anyways.”

“Alex would make you put a quarter in the swear jar for that.”

Carl looks back at Yevgeny and raises his eyebrows. “Who’s Alex?”

“Yev’s stepdad,” Ian explains. “He’s got more manners than the rest of us. Right, Yev?”

A shy smile forms on the kid’s lips. “Dad swears _a lot_. Like my mom.”

“Yeah, like every other word.”

Yevgeny lets out a quiet laugh and nods. Ian steps over to where he’s sitting on the laundry machine and ruffles his hair. “Yevgeny, this is your Uncle Carl, my little brother.”

“Hi, Carl.”

“Hey, kid,” Carl replies, before walking over to the fridge. He’s not surprised when there’s not much inside, but he still groans. “Why is there never food in this house?” he asks, grabbing a beer.

“Debbie and Fiona both had to work overtime this week, and Liam and Chuckie are useless,” Ian says. “You shouldn’t fill up anyways. We’re taking you out to Patsy’s for dinner tonight, on us. The first thing Mickey wanted was a giant ass cheeseburger when he got out, so I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, were you in prison too?”

Carl closes the fridge and looks at the kid again. It’s like staring at a tiny Mickey, with the scrunched up eyebrows and everything. He can’t help but laugh at the sight of him. “I was, yeah. Not as long as your dad though.”

“He’s working up to that,” Ian teases.

Carl flips him off and then leans his elbows on the counter. “So when’s this celebratory dinner happening? Because I’m actually fuckin’ starving.”

“At six, soon as Debs and this one’s dad get off their shifts.”

“The diner, huh? That mean Fiona and Sean are really back on?”

Ian shrugs. “Yeah, I think so. They’re at least friendly again.”

“Think that’s a good idea?”

“No clue. Maybe? He was fine, I guess. Gave Mick and Debs jobs.”

He still can’t believe Mickey works there. It seems like a waste of time, breaking your back and scraping for every penny, when you can make probably five times a week’s pay on one drug run. “He like it there? Seems like a shit job to me.”

Ian’s eyes flick over to Yevgeny, but the kid has gone back to reading, clearly not interested in what they’re saying. “He doesn’t love it or anything, but he doesn’t hate it either. He’s doing some cooking now, and that came with a raise so, you know, could be worse.” 

“And you guys are good? Seeing as you got his kid with you, I’m guessing yeah.”

“ _Our_ kid,” Ian says softly, glancing over at Yevgeny again. A grin splits his face, and Carl feels his own lips tugging up at the corners. “Yeah, we’re good. Fight like crazy sometimes, but that’s nothing new. It’s better now though. We don’t go storming off or anything. Usually just count to ten or some shit and figure it out.”

“How adult of you,” Carl mocks, taking a swig of beer.

“Yeah, I know. We’re looking for a place of our own now. Talking about credit reports and all that boring shit. Turns out Frank fucked all of ours, as a heads up.”

“I’m _shocked_ ,” Carl drawls, drinking more and relishing the way it tastes. “Already at the movin’ in together stage then?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Ian says, somehow grinning even wider than before.

It’s obvious his brother’s happy. Even though Ian holds his secrets close, he’s always had an easy enough face to read. Carl’s seen him annoyed, overjoyed, miserable, hopeless, and furious. Carl’s seen him when he’s feeling nothing at all. This seems different than all of those other times. Now, Ian almost looks content.

It’s good to see him smiling again. It’s good that he looks as healthy and strong as he did back when he was running around with a buzzed head in Army fatigues and not letting Carl play with his knives. Though he’ll probably never tell Ian, he looked up to him as a kid, as much as he can remember looking up to anyone who wasn’t on television or in a video game. Ian was tough. Ian knew how to kill a guy in like a hundred different ways. Ian wanted to grab a gun and go risk his life overseas somewhere in Fuck-knows-where-istan. Ian wanted to fuck shit up, but in a normal way rather than the creepy way Carl always did.

Carl’s never really reacted correctly to things, not like Ian and the rest of his siblings do for the most part. He’s known there’s probably something off about him since he popped a boner back in middle school while listening to his teacher talk about Marie Antoinette losing her head. If anyone were going to be the crazy new-Monica of the family, he figured it’d be him. He never imagined it would be quiet, dependable, secretly badass Ian.

But Ian’s smiling now. He’s smiling like his brain has never fucked him over and turned his dreams to shit. Like he has never run off with Monica or laid in a bed for weeks, staring vacantly at a wall. It makes Carl feel shitty about considering his own situation so impossible. Maybe he still looks up to Ian in some ways. If the guy can fight with his own brain and still come out on top, maybe Carl’s not necessarily as fucked as he thinks he is.

An obnoxious song starts playing and snaps Carl out of his thoughts. It takes him a second to realize it’s the song Debbie had been humming earlier and then another second to figure out it’s a ringtone. “That’s Mickey,” Ian says, pulling his cell from his back pocket. “Can you hang out with Yev for a sec? I’ll be right back.”

Carl wants to say _fuck no_ to that, but Ian’s already in the living room by the time he can respond. _At least the kid’s a book nerd,_ he thinks, as he grabs another beer from the fridge. Unfortunately, when he turns around, the kid isn’t looking at his book anymore. “You don’t really look like Ian.”

“Well,” Carl starts, ready to break down Gallagher family genetics for the mini-Mickey, right before he’s cut off by a shout from the living room. Yevgeny’s eyes go wide. He moves to hop off the washing machine, but Carl shakes his head. “Hold up there a minute, okay? Lemme see what’s going on." 

“Yes, yes, I heard you the first three fucking times!” Ian’s shouting into the phone, when Carl walks into the room. He’s moved closer to the front door, and it’s clear he’s trying to keep his voice down but is failing spectacularly at it. “How the hell did that even happen, Kev? Why the fuck was he there?” A pause. “Okay, okay, it doesn’t matter. Is he alright?” Another pause. “Jesus, Kev, fucking make them tell you.” A third pause. “Fucking fine. We’ll be there as soon as possible. Just—just try to get more, alright?” Ian jabs at his phone, hanging up, and then spins back to Carl. There are tears in his eyes, and his face has gone bright red.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“Yeah, something’s wrong,” Ian all but growls back. “Mickey went and got himself fucking shot for the umpteenth time. In front of the Alibi, apparently. Kev and V are at the hospital with him.”

“Jesus,” Carl says, with a low whistle. “He alright?”

“Some bitch at the hospital won’t tell them anything other than he’s _stable_ , which better be the fuckin’ truth, I swear to god,” Ian seethes, clenching and unclenching his fists. “We need to go to the hospital. Fuck, Yev, shit, I—”

“We’ll just tell him Mickey had an accident but it’s cool, okay? For now, ‘til we know more,” Carl suggests, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s gonna be fine, Ian.” His fingers itch again, but this time it’s not for a gun. He wants to reach out and grasp Ian’s shoulder, try to calm him down, but he’s pretty sure that would just freak him out even more. “I’ll drive.”

“You don’t even have a license.”

“Maybe not a _real_ one—”

“I’m driving, just—can you let the others know to meet us? I’ll get Yev.”

 

* * *

 

Carl and Yevgeny sit quietly next to each other in the waiting room for what feels like hours. Kev and V are close by, but Carl made sure to put some distance between them. Kev is blubbering like a little girl while V attempts to calm him the hell down in vain. That mess is the last thing the kid probably needs to see right now. 

“Is my dad okay?”

The kid has been impressively stoic so far. Carl didn’t hear exactly what Ian told him about the situation, but he must have done a hell of a job underselling it. The most recent update he’s heard is that Mickey is stable and talking, so he hopes he’s not lying when he says, “Yeah, he’s fine. Don’t worry. You’ll get to see him soon.” The kid nods, but his chin has started quivering, the same way Ian’s always quivers when he’s trying not to cry. “Hey,” Carl says, awkwardly patting the top of Yevgeny’s head, “It’s cool, really. He’s already been shot a couple times, and it was fine. Your dad’s tough. Pretty sure one time he didn’t even go to the hospital to get patched up.”

Yevgeny’s eyes go so wide it looks like they’re about to pop right out of his head. “My dad was _shot_? With a _gun_?” The questions come out in squeaky shouts.

_Shit, shit, shit._ Clearly Ian leaving with him the boy while he talked to the doctor was a terrible idea. His brother had to have known that, right? He doesn’t know how to talk to a nervous child, especially one that barely remembers the South Side. There are certain things neighborhood kids get used to that normal kids wouldn't understand. By the time he turned twelve, he had already spent plenty of time in hospital waiting rooms. Police stations, too.

“Fuck, don’t tell your dad or Ian I told you that, alright?”

“Did Dad _really_ get shot?” There are tears spilling over from the kid’s round, blue eyes, and Carl’s pretty sure this is the most uncomfortable moment of his life. 

He pats Yevgeny on the head again and sighs. “Yeah, uh, he did,” Carl admits, not seeing the point in trying to backtrack now. “But he’s gonna be fine. Seriously. I’ve been shot, too. Most people got real shit aim, so it’s really just a fuckin’ hassle more than anything.”

The kids sniffs a couple of times and runs his sleeve under his nose. Carl grabs the box of tissues on the small table next to him and plops them down on Yevgeny’s lap, but he just ignores them. “How many times have you been shot?”

“Twice. And I’m totally fine.” Carl starts rolling up his sleeve, thankful for a potential distraction. “See this?” He points to the small scar just above his elbow, and Yevgeny nods. “Bullet skimmed me. Took me a few minutes to even realize I’d been hit. My dad took a bullet in almost the same place. Little higher, I think. On both his arms.”

“Have you _all_ been shot?” Yevgeny gasps.

“Nah, just us. Ian and the rest have managed to avoid it. Though I think once Mickey’s dad almost—” Carl realizes what he’s about to reveal to a 10-year-old and quickly snaps his mouth shut. Mickey and Ian probably want to handle the whole your-grandfather-is-a-violent-homophobic-piece-of-shit conversation without Carl’s input. “I think Mickey’s dad has been shot, too,” he decides on instead.

“Why did you get shot? Was it an accident?”

“Uh, yeah, once it kinda was. Guy was aiming for the dude behind me. Second time not so much. Lucky he had shit aim.”

“But _why_ did he want to shoot you? You seem nice.”

Carl laughs at that, which only serves to confuse Yevgeny more. The kid’s eyebrows knot together. The look reminds him so much of Mickey, he accidentally laughs again. “It’s just a part of my job, man,” he answers. “Sometimes shit happens.”

“Then why don’t you get a new job?” Yevgeny asks, looking at him like he’s moron. “One where no one tries to shoot you.”

_High risk, high reward_ , he almost says, but he stops himself. Ian wouldn’t appreciate him romanticizing the career criminal lifestyle to his sort-of-son. “Ain’t that easy,” he says. “But I’m thinking about it.”

“But—”

“Yevgeny!” Fiona suddenly appears in front of them, mercifully cutting short what Carl’s sure was a long list of follow-up questions. There’s mascara smudged under her eyes, and her hair’s a mess, like she’s been running her hands through it. “Are you okay, buddy?” She leans down and wraps her arms around him, burying one hand in his dark hair. “Everything’s gonna be fine, okay?”

“I know, Uncle Carl told me.”

Only a few seconds later, Lip, Debbie, and Liam all march into the waiting room as well, in various states of disarray, and surround Carl and Yevgeny. It surprises him to see them all gathered here, for Mickey Milkovich of all people. When he shot the quick texts off to Fiona and Debbie, he hardly expected the whole family to show up. Maybe they’re just worried about this incident pushing Ian off the deep end again.

He’s focusing on the way Fiona’s rubbing comforting circles into Yevgeny’s back, when he feels a hard whack against the back of his head. “The fuck!” he yells, looking up to scowl at Debbie. “Why the hell are you hitting me, bitch?”

Debbie shoves her phone in Carl’s face. All he sees is the text he sent her about Mickey and doesn’t know what she’s trying to get at. “What?”

“ _Mickey hurt, goin to hospital with Ian and kid,_ ” she reads to him, in a poor imitation of his voice. “What the hell, Carl? You couldn’t have called us? Thrown in a few more details maybe? I was thinking the worst! And you didn’t even tell us what fucking hospital he was at! And then Kev called and started crying and I thought—”

“Can you stop yelling? Jesus,” Carl interjects. “I didn’t think you’d all show up.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t we show up?” Debbie practically shrieks at him. She looks at him the same way Yevgeny had been earlier, like he must be the dumbest human being to have ever walked the planet. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

_When the fuck did you all start giving a shit about Mickey Milkovich?_ That’s what he wants to ask, but then he remembers Mickey’s son is still sitting next to him and opts to just continue shooting Debbie death glares.

“Okay, monkey,” he hears Fiona saying softly. “Let’s go get you a soda or something, okay? By the time we get back, I’m sure we’ll be able to go in and see your Dad.” Yevgeny mumbles something back that Carl doesn’t hear. “Of course Liam can come with us. Liam, want to go down to the caf with me and Yev?”

“Yeah, man,” Liam says, reaching out to bump his fist against Yevgeny’s. Carl almost laughs at the gesture, but he has to admit there’s something kind of sweet about it. “And hey, Carl,” he adds, smiling at him. “Good to see you, bro. Glad you’re out.” It’s a muted greeting, to say the least. Liam doesn’t have a lot of memories still intact from his early years, for obvious reasons, and Carl hasn’t really been around much for his recent ones.

“Thanks, man.”

“You two can catch up later,” Fiona says, pushing Liam toward the door with one hand and grasping Yevgeny’s hand with the other. “If you hear anything while we’re gone, call me, okay? No more cryptic fuckin’ text messages.”

“What the hell does _cryptic_ mean?”

“Means you’re an asshole.” Lip plops down into the chair Yevgeny had been sitting in and smirks. “That was one hell of a text.”

“Fucking understatement,” Debbie sneers, fixing him with one last dirty look before following after Fiona, Yev, and Liam.

“Oh yeah, welcome home, Carl,” Carl drones, rolling his eyes. “So happy to see you.”

Lip snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, Mickey’s kind of overshadowing your grand return." 

“At least he’s not dead. Bad enough Ian stuck me with his crying kid.”

“The kid’s alright,” Lip says, with a shrug. “Stays over at our apartment sometimes. I know he’s not really related to us, but I think he somehow managed to get my brains anyways. He’s like ten, and he's already the smartest Milkovich in the history of Milkoviches." 

“Guess your genetics are just that strong,” Carl mocks.

“Guess so,” Lip chuckles. “Maybe Sasha will be lucky enough to take after her Uncle Lip, too.”

“I hear you’re a drunk now. That genetic?”

Lip huffs out a laugh, looking a little stunned by the retort. “Jesus, this family is full of fuckin’ gossips, ain’t it? Who told you that? Debbie?”

“Is it true?”

“Probably. Does it really matter?” Lip sighs, sounding dangerously close to defeated. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

Lip rolls his eyes. “You used to be a little shit who talked too much, and now I’m getting one-word answers, huh? Don’t go turning into Ian on me.” When Carl doesn’t say anything in response, Lip sighs again and leans back further in his chair. “So you need a job for your parole, right? You already got that lined up? If you need one, I can talk to my friend at the university. Pretty sure they’re looking for a new janitor.”

“I ain’t gonna be a fuckin’ janitor.”

“It’s decent work,” Lip argues. “Decent salary, healthcare, holidays, even paid time off. You could do a lot worse.”

“I got it figured out.”

“You got someone to lie for you, you mean.”

There’s a tired sort of disappointment in Lip’s tone. Carl’s not sure why the sound hits him so hard, but all of a sudden it feels like he’s an inch tall. He can’t even find it in him to refute Lip’s conclusion or warn him to stay the fuck out of it. He expects Lip to meet his silence with more questions or insistence that he at least give janitorial work a shot, but Lip says nothing. That’s it, apparently. That’s all the fight Lip has in him for his lawless little brother. He knows it has to get pretty dire for his family to start pushing—Fiona getting arrested, Lip dropping out of school, Debbie getting knocked up, Ian losing his mind. But he wonders just how dire it has to get before someone finally starts pushing him. Maybe they never will. Maybe they don’t think he’s good enough for anything else.

“Hey, guys.” He and Lip both sit up straighter at the sound of Ian’s voice. His hair is sticking up at about a hundred different angles and he looks so much more exhausted than he had only hours ago. “Where’s—?”

“Ian! Shit, is he okay?” All six feet whatever of Kev bounces over, followed closely by his wife. “How’s he doing? He alive? He’s alive, right?”

“He’s gonna be fine, Kev,” Ian says, with a small smile. “They got the bullet out, and he didn’t lose too much blood. It’s good you were there to help.”

“Thank Christ,” Kev breathes out. “When I saw him go down, I thought—”

“Why the hell was he even there?” Ian asks, pulling a hand through his already fucked up hair. “He was supposed to be at the diner.”

Kev’s face drops, like he’s just been given the worst news of his life. “It’s all my fucking fault,” he says, on the verge of tears again. “This neighborhood douchebag keeps hittin’ me up for money for protection services or some bullshit like that. Wouldn’t get off my back and—”

“So you called _Mickey_?” Ian shouts. “Are you fucking serious? He’s been trying to get away from that shit, Kev! He’s on fucking parole!”

“I know, I know!” Kev exclaims, holding up his hands. “I just—”

“Calm down, Ian. We were just—”

“I will not fucking calm down,” Ian hisses at V. “If I—if I lost him,” he starts, voice cracking. “Jesus, I don’t even know what I’d do.”

V reaches out a cautious hand. When Ian doesn’t flinch away, she gently runs it up and down his arm. “I know, hon,” she coos. “We’re sorry. We thought Mickey might be able to just scare him off, you know? Milkovich name and all that. But the guy got spooked and—shit, I’m not sure he even meant to shoot. It all happened so fuckin’ fast.”

“Mickey didn’t touch him though, didn’t even get to say much,” Kev adds. “Innocent bystander, far as the cops are concerned.”

“I know, he’s already talked to the cops,” Ian sighs. “They caught the punk. Mick thinks the whole thing’s hilarious, because he’s a complete and total asshole." 

Lip snorts, and Carl can’t help but laugh a little too. “You two are so romantic." 

“Fuck off, Lip.”

“So where’d he get shot anyways?” Lip asks. “Leg again?”

Ian frowns. “The, uh—yeah, sort of.”

“Oh, shit, it wasn’t his ass again, was it?”

Ian’s eyes narrow. “Lip—”

“’Cos I know how much you value that particular body part.”

“I fucking hate you,” Ian says, with no real heat behind it. “Can you just be nice to me for like eight seconds? This has been a shit night.”

The smirk on Lip’s face fades into a much kinder smile. “Yeah, ‘course, come here,” he says, standing up and pulling Ian into a hug. “I was just trying to make you laugh a little. I’m sorry. This blows, but we’ve got your back.”

Carl watches them hug, watches as Lip pats Ian on the back, watches as the tension in Ian’s body starts to unwind, watches as tears begin to stream down Ian’s face and pool on Lip’s shoulder. There must be something wrong with him, because the first thing he feels is anger. The second is jealousy. And the third is aggravation. That’s probably not a normal reaction to watching one of your siblings comfort another. And it’s not like Ian and Lip being close is anything new, but he can’t seem to tamp down the offending emotions.

“So, can we see Mickey or what?” There’s a little too much bite in his voice. He hopes the others are too stressed out to notice it.

“Uh, yeah, I think so. Where’s Yev?”

“With Fi,” V answers. “I’ll track her down.”

“Okay, yeah, tell her to bring him right in. Is he doin’ okay?”

“He’s fine,” Carl says. "Tough kid."

“Good. That’s good.” Ian scrubs a hand over his face and blinks a couple of times. “You guys can follow me. Kev, maybe you should calm down a little first?” Ian suggests. “Mick’s just gonna give you shit if you show up crying.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kev says, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I’ll go help V find the kid.”

 

* * *

 

Lip and Carl follow Ian down a hallway that seems too bright and too dark at the same time. It all smells so clean, so sterile. It makes Carl feel dizzy.

Mickey is laying on his side when they enter the room. He looks pale and sweaty but not as bad as Carl anticipated. At least there’s no blood that he can see. Since he stumbled over the body of another inmate, bloody and bludgeoned, he has trouble looking at wounds without getting nauseous.

“So you _did_ get shot in the ass!” Lip exclaims, a bit too gleefully.

“Jesus fuck, why’d you bring this fuckface back here with you?” Mickey snaps at Ian. “Where the fuck is Yev?”

“Deb and Fiona’ll be here with him any second, babe,” Ian assures him, brushing back some of the hair sticking to Mickey’s forehead.

“Can we maybe not have a Gallagher family reunion in my fuckin’ hospital room?” Mickey grumbles, even as he leans into Ian’s touch.

“Chill out, grumps,” Lip teases. “I’ll get out of your hair in a sec. Just wanted to come by and say I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

“Fuck you, I _am_ ,” Lip insists.

“Fine. Thanks. Go away.”

“Aw, guys, that was so sweet,” Ian laughs, shaking his head.

“Shut up,” Mickey grunts, before finally looking away from Ian and over to Lip. “Can you make yourself useful and go get this weirdo’s meds?”

Lip smirks, like he’s barely holding back some smartass comment, but he ends up just nodding and moving toward the door. “Sure thing. Later, Mick,” he says, saluting Mickey from the hall. “Make sure Ian goes easy on you for a while, yeah?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Mickey mutters, as Lip disappears through the door. “I fucking hate that—Oh, shit, hey, Carl.” Mickey’s eyes fall on him, and Carl holds up a hand in a poor excuse for a wave. “Sorry for fuckin’ up your welcome home party.”

“It’s cool. Thought I might die of hunger waiting to hear if your ass was alright, but it’s cool. I’ll probably get over it.”

Ian crosses his arms, looking less than amused, but Mickey barks out a laugh. “Get over here, man. You got old quick. How was your first stay in big boy prison?”

“Sucked,” Carl admits, figuring it’s not worth trying to lie to Mickey. If he starts talking it up, Mickey’s sure to know he’s full of shit. Ian looks caught off guard by the answer, but Mickey nods knowingly. “Gonna try not gettin’ thrown in again, but shit happens.”

“Could just get out of the game,” Mickey says.

“Ain’t that easy.”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know it ain't. But it can be done.”

Ian glances back and forth between them, looking somewhere between confused and concerned. “I’m sure Sean would—”

“I’m not having this conversation again, Ian,” Carl snaps, louder than he means to. Ian recoils slightly, and Carl knows he should probably apologize. The creak of the door swinging open saves him from that though.

“Dad!”

“Ay, little man. Get over ‘ere.”

“Be careful,” Ian cautions, catching Yev’s arm right before the kid can throw himself on to the bed. “Your dad’s a little sore.”

“I’m fuckin’ fine. Don’t listen to Nurse Ratched over here,” Mickey argues, though there’s a fond smile on his face as he says it. “Get up here.”

The position they’ve got Mickey in isn’t really conducive to hugging, but somehow they manage it. Tears start welling up in Yevgeny’s eyes again. Mickey cups the boy’s face and brushes some of them away with his thumbs, as Ian puts an arm around each of them. Carl can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. They look like a family. Even stuck in this awful hospital room, they look happy, happy just to be around each other. Something about it brings up those weird, inappropriate feelings again—jealousy, anger, aggravation. His chest feels tight and his hands fidgety. Fiona and Debbie close in, both rambling away, but Carl can’t hear the words. They’re all standing together—hugging, sniffling, and smiling. They make for a nice picture, a picture Carl can’t imagine himself fitting in to.

Kev and V show up. He thinks V says something to him, but he’s not sure what. Lip reappears not too long after, with cups of coffee balanced in his hands and an orange bottle sticking out of his back pocket. They’re all talking. It’s so loud. There’s a ringing in his ears, and it feels like the room is starting to contract, the walls closing in on him. There are too many people here, and it smells too clean. He’s not sure how the hell everyone else can breathe in this place.

“Yo, I’m gonna go get some food,” he announces, but he’s pretty sure no one even knows he’s still there. He slips out of the room, back into the white hallway, and takes a deep breath, releasing it through his nose. _Count back from ten. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6…_ He shakes out his hands, realizing they’ve curled in to fists, and takes another breath. … _5, 4, 3, 2, 1._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next up is Mickey, in a chapter I've been looking forward to writing for a while. :)


	16. Romance is Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has to be more than that, if they’re ever going to last. It has to be more.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._ The now familiar noises of the hospital flood Mickey’s ears as he stirs awake. There’s light streaming in through the one small window in his room when he blinks his eyes open. He’s about to call for a nurse to pull down the shades on the stupid thing so he can get some damn sleep, but he pauses when he notices a head of red hair on the bed by his hip.

Ian is slumped forward in a shitty, little chair he must have pulled up right next to Mickey’s bed at some point in the night, with only his arms and head resting on the sheets. It can’t be a comfortable position, but judging by the sound of his soft snoring, Ian’s fast asleep.

“Doing okay in here, Mr. Milkovich?”

Mickey flinches at the title. Though people have rarely addressed Terry Milkovich so formally, it still makes him think of his father. “Mickey,” he reminds the tired-looking nurse for what has to be the hundredth time. “And yeah, fine.”

“And your partner?" 

Mickey flinches a second time. The rational part of him knows it must be obvious to the staff that Ian is more than just an overly dedicated friend, what with him never fucking leaving no matter how much Mickey insists he’s fine, but the question still scares him. _I’m not a fag_ , he almost sneers back. He’s not sure why those are the first words that enter his head. He’s not sure why his heart is beating so fast. If he’s going to move in with the man sitting next to his bed, if he’s going to love him and raise a child with him and do whatever other gay things Ian’s got in mind, he’s probably going to have to get over this. But it feels like the impulse to _deny, deny, deny_ is hardwired inside him.

The woman is staring at him, her eyebrows knitting together slightly. Mickey takes a deep breath and then runs a shaky hand through Ian’s hair. “Fine,” he mumbles, refusing to make eye contact with her. “Still sleeping like a baby, apparently.”

“It’s sweet, how much he cares about you. You two make a lovely couple.” Mickey has to clench his teeth to keep from snapping at her to mind her own business. He doesn’t recall asking for her fucking opinion. “There’s someone else here to see you, a Lip Gallagher. I wanted to make sure you were awake first. Is it okay if he comes in?”

_Jesus Christ_ , Mickey thinks, only barely suppressing an annoyed groan. He almost asks her to tell Lip to fuck off, but he figures if Lip has hauled himself off of whatever floor he passed out on so early on a Saturday morning, he must have something important to say. “Yeah, fine. Let him in.”

Mickey gives Ian’s shoulder a sharp poke. When Ian doesn’t stir, Mickey pokes him again, even harder. “Ay, asshole, wake up.” His efforts are only met with the same soft snores. Mickey sighs and leans back against the propped up pillows behind him, mentally preparing himself to deal with Lip on his own.

“Hey there, sunshine. How’re you feeling this fine morning?" 

Mickey holds up his middle finger in answer. “What d’you want?”

“Hey, hey, don’t be like that. I smuggled you in coffee, assured the nurse it was tea,” Lip says, placing a cup from Ian’s café on table next to the bed. “Made sure they put a crapload of sugar in it for you, just like you like.” 

Mickey narrows his eyes at him but takes a sip of the coffee anyways. It is just the way he likes it, sweet and bitter at the same time. The smell is heaven, and it tastes so good that he’s almost tempted to say thank you.

“He driving you crazy yet?” Lip nods his head toward Ian.

“I've told him to go home a thousand times. He shouldn’t even be here,” Mickey grumbles, reluctantly setting down the coffee. “Visiting hours end at nine, but this fucker keeps charming the nurses into letting him sleep over.”

Lip smirks. “Yeah, that sounds like Ian. Gonna wake up with a sore neck though, sleepin’ like that all the time.” He walks around to the other side of the bed and then slips off the light jacket he’s wearing, draping it over Ian’s shoulders as a makeshift blanket.

It’s a nice gesture. One that almost makes Mickey smile. As irritating as Ian’s older brother can be most of the time, Mickey’s glad they can at least be civil toward each other now. It’s obvious how important Ian is to Lip, and it makes it real hard to hate the guy as much as Mickey wants to. “I told him to go home, man,” Mickey says again. “I’m fine.”

“He’s worried about you.”

“Shouldn’t be.”

Lip shrugs and then leans against the wall by the window. “Lucky you’re gonna be outta here by the time Ian and I head to California. Wouldn’t have been able to forgive you if he ditched me to sit in this room watching you get your ass-bandages changed instead.”

Mickey snorts out a laugh. “Fuck you, man.”

“I’m kidding. Mostly.”

“I’d make him go anyways,” Mickey says, threading his fingers through Ian’s hair again. “He’s been real excited about going. Keeps blabbering on about it. Shouldn’t miss out on seeing the fuckin’ ocean ‘cos of me.”

Lips nods slowly. “I’m looking forward to it, too. Have been for a while,” he admits. “Feels like our last hurrah, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Mickey says, raising his eyebrows. “Last hurrah? You goin’ somewhere?”

“Nah, not me. Ian.”

Mickey’s stomach drops, and his hand stills in Ian’s hair. “The fuck does that mean? Where the hell you think he’s going?”

“Jesus, relax. I didn’t mean it that literally.” Lip chuckles quietly, and Mickey feels himself starting to tense up. God, he hates the sound of this asshole’s laugh. “He’s not gonna bail on you. He’s not even gonna bail on me. I just mean—he’s gonna move out, and you two will have your own life together, you know? It’s not gonna be the same.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Seriously? I’m not tryin’ to take him away from you. We’re gonna live like twenty minutes away, max. He wants to go see you, he can go see you. Whenever he feels like it. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. Ain’t his keeper.”

“You’re not getting it.” Lip's eyes fall on Ian, and he sighs. “This isn’t about you. It’s just gonna be different. You guys are gonna be making a life, that’s what couples do. And it’s cool, I’m happy for you. You’re not gonna believe me, but I am. I’m just going to miss him, that’s all. Maybe I’m even a little jealous I’m not gonna be the one taking care of him anymore.”

_Oh._ The pieces of what Lip’s trying to say finally start fitting together, and Mickey feels a little guilty about lashing out.

“You’ll take care of him, right?” Lip’s eyes lock on his, serious and unblinking.

Mickey doesn’t hesitate with his response. “Yeah. Always.”

“Good,” Lip says, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s not that I don’t trust him. I really do. He’s got his shit worked out, and that’s all him, not me. But he needs someone to look out for him. Think we all do.”

“I’ll look out for him.” This conversation is growing dangerously close to a heart-to-heart. Mickey wants to shut it down, so he can stop feeling so goddamned awkward, but he knows he should let Lip say his peace.

“Alright, good. That’s good. All I wanted to hear,” Lip says simply, and that, to Mickey’s eternal relief, seems to be the end of it. “Just wanted to make sure Ian was here, and everything was going alright still. I’ll see you around. Feel better.”

“Ay, your jacket?” Mickey points to the thin fabric still covering Ian.

“It’s cool, he can keep it. Probably getting hot as shit out there by now anyways,” Lip says. “Later, Mickey.”

 

* * *

 

A half hour later, Ian is still asleep. The nurse should be back in to change his bandages any minute, and Mickey feels bad that Ian will have to get up. He looks peaceful like this. Mickey wishes he could actually see his face, could let his eyes wander over the constellations of freckles across his skin and his long eyelashes, even if that’d probably make him a huge creep.

A phone rings, and Mickey immediately falls back against his pillows, like an animal playing dead. He feels Ian push off the bed, now awake, but he keeps his eyes shut for some reason. “Mandy?” he hears Ian rasp once the piercing ring finally ceases. “Jesus, what time is it?” A pause. “Yeah, I was fucking still sleeping. That a problem?”

Mickey lets out a quiet laugh. He opens his eyes, trying to act like he’s just been roused from sleep, and finds Ian smiling at him. “He’s fine, Mands. I told you if anything changed, I’d let you know.” _Wanna talk to her?_ Ian mouths to him, holding his hand over the speaker.

Mickey shakes his head. He appreciates his sister being worried about him, but the three phone calls a day are starting to get a little excessive. There are only so many ways he can tell her he’s fine and to stop fucking fussing about it already.

“He’s still sleeping,” Ian lies. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll let him know.” As Ian nods into the phone, his hand moves over the blankets until its resting on top of Mickey’s. “Of course I will. Yeah. Yeah. Okay, yeah. Okay, bye, Mands.”

“Jesus, she’s worse than you,” Mickey groans, once Ian hangs up.

“It’s hard for her, not being able to see you.”

“Then take a picture or something.”

Ian smiles wider and squeezes his hand. “Feeling okay?”

“Can you stop askin’ me that?” Mickey grumbles. “How ‘bout, if I’m not feelin’ okay, I’ll let you fuckin’ know, alright?”

“Well, someone’s grumpy this morning,” Ian teases, pressing a brief kiss to Mickey’s lips. “Has the nurse come in yet?" 

“Should be any minute now.”

Ian nods and then finally seems to notice the jacket around his shoulders. He pulls it off and stares at it, his eyebrows knotting in confusion. “Was Lip here?”

“Yeah, showed up this morning. Brought me coffee, but I think he was just stopping by to make sure you were alright. You should go home. Shower and then sleep in an actual bed for a while before you gotta go into work.”

Ian tosses the jacket over the back of the chair and shakes his head. “I think I’m gonna call out sick today.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I just—”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Mickey interrupts firmly, using his free hand to cup Ian’s cheek. “Ain’t gonna get shot again holed up in here, am I? Just chill out. Don’t gotta put your entire life on hold because I went and did something stupid.”

Ian looks down at their entwined hands. Mickey can tell he’s chewing on the inside of his lip and wishes he knew whatever magic words would finally making Ian stop fretting over him all the time. “I just—I keep having nightmares about it. That Kev calls and then I get here and you’re—and you’re—” Ian trails off and clears his throat. “It’s easier when I can wake up and see you and know you’re here, you know? I don’t know. I’m probably being crazy.”

“You’re not being crazy,” Mickey assures him. “I’m having nightmares, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, ‘bout the fuckin’ bills for this shit. You know how much an ambulance ride costs? Can’t even imagine what they charge to dig a bullet out of your ass.”

Ian makes an indignant noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “The bills? Really? You could’ve died! Or what if that guy had claimed you attacked him or something? You could’ve gone back to jail.” Ian runs a hand down his face and exhales loudly through his nose. The grip he has on Mickey’s hand tightens. “I know you were doing a good thing, but please promise me you’ll be more careful now, okay? I don’t—I need you, Mick.”

“Ain’t gonna say sorry for helping them out. They’ve been good to me since I got back,” Mickey snaps, pulling his hand away. “Didn’t do shit wrong. Was just gonna—”

“I’m not asking you to apologize,” Ian interjects gently. “I’m not mad at you. I just—I’m just trying to say I don’t want to lose you. Never again.”

Mickey can’t help but smile at that, even as his stomach twists at the sight of the concern practically written on Ian’s face. He hates that he’s caused Ian pain, even unintentionally. “I’ll be more careful, ‘kay?” he concedes. “’Long as you promise to stop naggin’ me.”

Ian makes the same silly little scoffing noise. “I’m _not_ nagging.”

“Sure sounds like nagging to me.”

“Fuck you.”

“I wish. Think anyone would notice?”

Ian rolls his eyes, but he laughs, which is what Mickey had been going for. “Pretty sure that wouldn’t be medically advisable at this point.”

“We’ve worked around it before.”

A goofy grin stretches across Ian’s face. “We sure have.”

Mickey reaches out and grabs the collar of Ian’s shirt. He pulls him forward until they’re kissing again. “Sometimes I like it when you go slow anyways,” Mickey breathes over Ian’s lips. 

“Oh yeah?” Ian whispers back.

“ _Mm_.” The kiss deepens. It’s sweet and unhurried and Mickey can’t get enough of it. He’s considering risking reopening his stitches just so he can hop out of this godforsaken bed and do something about the heat building low in his gut when Ian pulls away from him.

“Are you really worried about the money?”

Mickey huffs and leans back against the pillows again. Nothing kills a growing boner faster than talking about money problems. “I’d be an idiot not to be,” he says. “I make less than shit at the diner. I got the shittiest of shit health insurances. This is gonna cost a fortune. And these whitecoats keep blabbering at me about physical therapy, like I can afford that. But you don’t gotta worry about it, man. Ain’t your problem.”

“Your problems are my problems now.”

“Not draggin’ you down into debt with me. It’s my fault, I’ll fix it.”

Ian’s mouth twists and his brows furrow, like he’s thinking hard about something. He doesn’t say anything right away, just glances up at Mickey’s face and then quickly back down at the bed. Eventually, he reaches out and pulls one of Mickey’s hand closer to him, circling it between his own. “I have good health insurance, you know." 

“Good for fuckin’ you.”

Ian bites his lip and continues not meeting Mickey’s eyes. “It could be yours, too,” he says so softly, Mickey has to strain to hear him.

“What? You want me to work at Rosa’s or something?”

“No." 

“Then what the hell are you talking about?”

Ian takes a deep breath. “You really don’t know?”

Mickey stares at the side of Ian’s face, eyes tracing over his profile. His jaw is working back and forth. It’s obvious he’s nervous, but Mickey has no idea why. “No, I don’t. You gonna explain it to me, or we gonna play twenty questions all day?”

Ian takes another deep breath and then sits up straight, squaring his shoulders like he’s steeling himself for battle. “We could get married.”

Four words. Four words, and it’s suddenly like the entire world has crashed to a halt around him. He can’t hear anything—not the people talking out in the hallway, not the beeps and whirs of the machines, not the birds chirping just outside his window. There’s only a buzzing in his ears and the sound of his own labored breathing.

“Then you could be on my insurance. You could get the physical therapy or whatever they want you to do. We wouldn’t have to worry.”

_Is he serious?_ He’s sure this has to be some kind of joke, because there’s no way this can actually be happening right now, in this stupid room that a nurse charged with making sure the wound on his ass isn’t infected is probably about to walk into any second. “Did you just fucking propose to me?”

“I, uh, yeah, I think it would—”

“You just fucking proposed to me by talking about fucking healthcare?” Mickey growls out, before Ian can finish his thought. “You fucking with me right now, Gallagher?”

“No!” Ian exclaims, looking close to panicked. “Why would I ever do that? I’m serious, Mick. This makes sense. This—”

“ _This makes sense_ ,” Mickey parrots back to him. “This makes sense! Well, if that isn’t the most romantic shit I’ve ever heard.”

Ian squeezes his hand tighter, not letting Mickey rip it away like he wants to. “Okay, okay, I didn’t—I could’ve done that better,” Ian says, eyes now wide and watery. “I just—”

“Everything okay in here?” The same nurse from earlier pokes her head inside. “It’s time to get you cleaned up, Mr. Milkovich.” This is where Mickey usually insists he’s fine or makes a crass joke, but he’s been knocked speechless. When Ian drops his hand and stands up, Mickey feels dizzy.

“Do you—?” Ian starts to ask him something, but Mickey snaps at him to let the lady do her job before he can finish. The tension in the room is suffocating, and Mickey can tell by the way the woman is shifting her weight between her feet that she would give anything to get the hell out of there. “Um, okay,” Ian mumbles, eyes darting wildly all over the place, everywhere except Mickey. “I’ll just—I’ll go get some food and take my meds then, I guess. I’ll be back.”

Mickey watches him walk away. A sharp pain shoots through his stomach when his red hair disappears into the hallway. He wants to yell at him to come back, but his tongue feels heavy, like it’s been weighed down with concrete.

“Are you okay?”

Mickey only grunts in response and then starts turning over to get the embarrassing daily routine over with. The woman is saying something to him while she patches him up, but he’s not listening. He’s too busy trying to remember every little detail of Ian’s face when he said those four words— _we could get married._ Was there pity in his expression, in his voice, or had Mickey only been imagining that? Is that what this is about? Does Ian think he can’t take care of himself?

His mind drifts to the apartment they had looked at with Yevgeny the day before Mickey got shot. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s a nice enough place in a decent neighborhood with a room that Yevgeny could claim as his own. Mickey wasn’t sure how they could manage to pay for it, but Ian had assured him it could be done. He wonders how much Ian actually makes, how much he’s going to be relying on Ian for shit like this now. He wonders if Ian even actually wants to marry him at all, or if he just feels too guilty to sit back and let Mickey sink into destitution.

“You’re all set, Mr. Milkovich.”

When Mickey cautiously turns back over, wincing when his stitches pull, the first thing he sees is Ian waiting by the door. Mickey’s tempted to come up with an excuse for the nurse to stay, but she hurries out of the room before he even has time to speak. They’re alone again, neither of them speaking. The only relief from the crushing awkwardness is that Ian’s so focused on the coffee cup in his hands, he probably can’t see just how confused and angry Mickey feels.

“Ain’t getting hitched just to pay some fuckin’ bills,” Mickey spits out after several long, excruciating minutes of silence.

Ian’s mouth presses into a hard line and his chin starts to quiver a little. Mickey hates when his chin does that. He’s not sure he’ll be able to stay angry if Ian starts to cry. “It wasn’t about—Jesus, I love you, Mick,” he chokes out, voice cracking. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t need your fuckin’ pity, Ian,” he says, through clenched teeth. “Think this makes you some kinda saint? Marrying me to help me out? Don’t need your help. Got along just fine without you for years. Don’t need you riding in here like some knight or whatever to fix things.”

Ian grimaces and sniffs loudly. A moment later, tears start spilling down his cheeks. _Fuck, he’s crying._ The tears and the way Ian has wrapped his arms protectively around his waist makes Mickey feel queasy. He’s being too harsh. Even if the proposal was made out of pity or worry or good sense or whatever the fuck inspired Ian to just pop the question out of nowhere, Mickey knows he didn’t mean any harm. He just can’t seem to get a handle on the word vomit spewing from his mouth.

“Just go home, Ian,” Mickey pleads, hoping he can convince him to leave before shit just inevitably gets worse. “Go get some actual sleep.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Ian snarls back. “The fuck you so mad about anyways? You don’t wanna marry me, fine, just say no. It’s just a piece of paper to you anyways, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you said? One little piece of paper and you won’t be up to your eyeballs in debt. Thought you’d appreciate the logic of the whole thing.”

_It’s not just a piece of paper if it’s you._ He wishes he could say that, but instead he bites out, “That piece of paper is more of a fucking hassle than you realize, Gallagher.”

“Well, I’m sorry for _hassling_ you,” Ian mutters under his breath, scowling down into his coffee. “You’re right, I should get some sleep. Maybe all of this is just messing with my head or something. I must be losing it, right? Thinkin’ you’d want this. I’ll get out of your way. Bye, Mick.” And then he’s gone, the door slammed shut behind him.

Mickey’s alone. Only white walls, crumpled up magazines he’s already read, and a television that doesn’t work to keep him company. His gut is churning, tying itself together into aching knots. This isn’t how any of this was supposed to happen. He’s thought about marrying Ian, thought about how that conversation might go, and it wasn’t like this. He doesn’t want Ian to marry him out of some sense of obligation. It has to be more than that, if they’re ever going to last. It has to be more.

 

* * *

 

Lunch consists of soggy macaroni and cheese that’s gone cold by the time it’s delivered and a side salad they couldn’t pay him to touch. He prods at the macaroni with his fork a couple of times before deciding he’d rather go hungry. At least there’s a fucking Jell-O cup.

“Yo, that food looks like shit.” Carl Gallagher swaggers into the room, wearing low-hanging jeans and a t-shirt about four sizes too big for him. He throws his backpack on the floor and then settles into Ian’s chair. “Ian said you hated it, so I brought you something.” When Carl pulls out a paper takeout bag, Mickey could almost kiss the kid. “Hope chicken salad works. Ian said to get you something healthy. Figured that ruled hotdogs out. Chicken’s good for you though, right?" 

“‘Long as it’s not fried, I think so, yeah.” Mickey considers making a joke about Ian turning into a mother hen on him, but even just thinking about it hurts. He’s been staring down the door all day, expecting Ian to come marching through it at any moment, demanding they work this out. But if he’s sending Carl over with lunch, he probably doesn’t have plans to show up any time soon.

Carl holds out the sandwich, and Mickey takes it, trying to force a smile and not wallow in his disappointment. This will be the first time since he was admitted that he and Ian won’t eat lunch together. “Thanks for this, man.”

“Sure, not a big deal. Ian owes me five bucks though.” Carl pulls out his own sandwich and instantly starts stuffing the thing down his mouth like he’s in a competition. When bits of bread and chicken start falling down the kid’s chin and on to his lap, Mickey laughs. 

“What?” Carl asks, around a mouthful of food.

“You eat like a fuckin’ pig.”

Carl just shrugs and resumes masticating the poor sandwich. Mickey eats more slowly, his eyes drifting over to the door every few minutes.

“You waitin’ on someone?” Carl eventually asks, before letting out a loud belch.

“No. Why?”

“Keep looking at the door,” he says, motioning to it. “Like you’re waiting for someone.”

“Oh, nah, just don’t want the staff catching me cheating on their food with takeout,” Mickey lies. “So, you got nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon than show up here?”

“Not really,” Carl says, wiping his hands down the front of his jeans. “I probably would’ve just slept ‘til like three if Ian hadn’t called. Then spent the rest of the day killing shit in this new video game I picked up.”

“What’d he say? When he called.”

“That he had work and needed me to pick up lunch for you. Exciting stuff.”

Mickey sighs and throws the still uneaten portion of his sandwich on top of the mac and cheese. “He sound okay?”

“Yeah. Why? Somethin’ wrong?”

“No, forget it,” Mickey says, waving him off. “Just checking.”

“This place actually ain’t as bad as I remember it being that night,” Carl says, looking around the room. “Must be a nice break at least.”

“Break from what?”

“The diner,” Carl says, cocking an eyebrow at him like that should’ve been obvious. “Can’t believe you work there. I’d go insane if I had to deal with those people. Do they ever make you wear a hairnet?” When Mickey nods, Carl recoils like he’s been slapped. “Fuck, don’t know how you handle it. Better ways of making money.”

“Oh yeah? Like what, tough guy?”

“I got a job coming up. It’s gonna be real big money. Like, paying for that new apartment you guys are looking at kinda money, you know?” Carl’s grinning and his fingers are twitching in his lap. “But we need a lookout. Think you’d be interested? Easy money.”

For about two and a half seconds, the offer is appealing. It probably would be easy money, just hanging back while some other guys do all the dirty work. And it sure as hell would do a lot for his wounded pride if he could pay for that stupid, wonderful apartment Ian likes so much on his own. But he knows one hit is all it takes to get addicted again. Jobs like that can be a drug—the quick money, the thrill of risking it all, that’s the kind of shit that gets you high. Until you crash and find yourself handcuffed in the back of a squad car, at least.

“Your brother would rip your balls off and shove them down your throat if he knew you were asking me that kind of shit.”

“Ian doesn’t gotta know.”

“Yeah, he does. I don’t keep secrets from him.”

Carl lets out a harsh laugh and shakes his head. “Bullshit. Everyone keeps secrets, man. Even if they don’t mean to.”

“Well, aren’t you a ray of fuckin’ sunshine,” Mickey chuckles. “It’s not just because of Ian. I’m not doing that stuff anymore. I got a kid that actually sorta likes me for some reason. I’m staying straight for him, even if it means I gotta put on a hairnet some days.”

“Sorry, that makes zero sense to me. ‘Specially if you’re just gonna get shot anyways.”

“Ay, that ain’t my fault. Just the risk you take going outside in Chicago, right?” Carl smirks and nods in agreement. “Staying outta the game lowers my chances of it happening a fourth time at least. This luck ain’t gonna last forever.”

“Don’t know how you left it behind,” Carl says, propping his feet up on the edge of Mickey’s bed and pushing himself back in the chair. “Think I’d off myself if I had to wash dishes every day for fucking nothing. Sean told me how much he pays. Barely enough to cover the goddamn bus there. But Debbie still seems to think I’m crazy for turning it down.”

“Ain’t that bad. Stop being a drama queen,” Mickey argues. “My life’s never been better than it is now, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”

Carl raises his eyebrows, apparently surprised by that. “Seriously? You actually like working there? Figured Ian was just making you.”

“Ian isn’t making me do shit. And no, I don’t like working there. Who likes cleaning up other people’s crap and sweating through your fuckin’ shirt in a hot as balls kitchen washing dishes? No one. But I like having somewhere to go. I like knowing I can go in and do my job and leave with some money in my pocket without anyone trying to kill me or haul me off to prison for it.” Mickey pauses and then adds, “And I like knowing your brother’s proud of me. That he’s happy.”

Carl doesn’t respond, but he looks like he’s considering Mickey’s words. Mickey sees a lot of himself in Ian’s younger brother, in the bravado and the anger and the resolve to never, under any circumstances, ask someone for help. “Prison sucks, but I don’t need to tell you that, right?” Mickey continues. “It’s draining and demeaning and fuckin’ lonely and if someone ever tells me when I can and can’t piss again, I might lose my shit.”

Carl looks up at the ceiling. He’s gnawing on the inside of his lip the same way Ian does sometimes. “How’d you do it?”

“Once I decided I didn’t want to be alone anymore, I made it work,” Mickey explains. “Had to ask around about jobs, but people are usually more willing to help you out than you think. Plus, my dad almost killing me made it pretty clear I wasn’t gonna be welcomed back into my old circles anytime soon. Better to get a legit job, keep my head down. I like staying alive.”

Carl snorts. “Yeah, always a good thing.”

“You want out?”

For nearly a minute, Carl doesn’t speak or move or give any indication at all that he had even heard what Mickey asked. Mickey’s about to ask again when the kid finally lifts his shoulders in a quick, jerky shrug. It looks like a small effort, but Mickey knows how hard it must be for Carl to even do that much. Needing help means you’re weak. Wanting out means you’re weak. Hating the game, hating being locked away, hating all of it means you’re weak. That’s what they drill into you until it feels like leaving is what makes you a coward rather than refusing to walk away.

“Maybe,” Carl finally admits. “But I’m not washing dishes. Or cleaning out toilets or some bullshit like that.”

“Well, what d’you like to do?”

“Dunno. Eat, drink, fuck, shoot stuff, play video games.”

“Yeah, don’t we all,” Mickey laughs. “What d’you like that might actually make you some money? That doesn’t involve breaking the law.”

“Well, that narrows down the list to jack shit.”

“Yeah, I get that. Sometimes you gotta start out at the bottom and eat shit for a while until something better comes along,” Mickey says. “But it’s worth it.”

“Ain’t that easy, though.”

“I know.” Mickey stares at Carl for a moment. He doesn’t look much like Ian, taking more after Frank than Monica. But he can see traces of Ian in the way he keeps anxiously tapping his fingertips against his knees, in how he refuses to make eye contact when he’s uncomfortable. “You need help getting someone off your back?”

“Not getting you mixed up in that,” Carl says. “We’ll just wind up in this place together, and Ian will smother me with a pillow in my sleep.”

“He’d want me to help you.”

Carl shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. None of it fuckin’ matters. Not like my family cares anyways. ‘Least this way they get some money out of it.”

“You’re kidding, right? Those fuckers don’t do anything but care. It’s exhausting.” Carl frowns and stays silent. “Just because they ain’t locking you in your room or making some kind of grand gesture don’t mean they don’t care,” Mickey adds. “And why d'you need them to care anyways, huh? I didn’t have shit when I turned things around. Ian had left me, didn’t know where the hell my sister was, barely saw my son. Didn’t have anyone. You can’t rely on other people to make you do shit, Carl. The only way this kind of thing ever sticks is if you decide yourself it’s what you want. Look at your brother. People kept trying to help him, but he needed to figure it out for himself. That’s the only way it works. So you want this or not?”

Carl doesn’t answer his question, but Mickey can tell he’s absorbed the words. That’s a win in itself. “Whatever,” the kid says. “‘Nuff about me. What’d you do that Ian’s sending me over here for lunch anyways?”

“He had work.”

“Don’t think that’s the reason,” Carl says, smirking.

“Why? Thought you said he sounded fine on the phone.”

“He did, but I could tell he was _trying_ to sound fine. He’s a shit liar.”

“I shouldn’t tell you.”

“Well, now I _have_ to know.”

“It’s not my fuckin’ fault,” Mickey starts, rubbing at his temples. “He—he went and sprung a _marriage proposal_ on me while we were talking about bills and—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Carl interrupts. “My brother _proposed_ to you? Like, today? Holy shit, did you say no? If you said no, I think I might be required to kick your ass or somethin’. Right? Do younger brothers have to do that, or is just the older ones?”

“I didn’t say yes or no. I didn’t say shit, because it wasn’t real,” Mickey snaps. “He said we should do it for the health insurance. Just like that. Romance is dead.”

“You’re mad because it wasn’t more _romantic_? That’s so gay, man." 

“No. I’m mad because he didn’t _mean_ it.”

“And how do you know that?” Carl challenges. “Did you _see_ him the night you got shot? He was losing his mind. Pretty sure he’s as gay for you as it gets.”

“We were talking about bills!” Mickey nearly shouts, frustrated that Carl doesn’t seem to be able to recognize the problem with this whole scenario.

“So? Just because he ain’t making some grand gesture don’t mean he doesn’t care,” Carl argues, throwing Mickey’s own advice right back in his face. “Maybe he just didn’t want to freak you out? I ain’t the one in a relationship with you, so I might have this wrong, but you never seemed like the most, uh, open guy. Might’ve thought you’d appreciate quick and easy instead of him writing your name in candles or something.”

“Jesus, I wasn’t expecting candles or anything like that. Wasn’t even expecting him to be the one who asked, really, I just—”

“Wanted some romance?” Carl teases, waggling his eyebrows. “Look, I’m about as far as you can get from, like, an expert on these kinda things, but isn’t what happened kinda nice in its own way? He asked ‘cos he wants to take care of you, right?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey says, a sinking feeling in his gut.

“People are always trying to find the hidden meaning in everything,” Carl complains. “Like a bunch of girls obsessing over some text from a dude. Sometimes people just mean what they fucking say, you know? Like, if some guy texts you, ‘kay, I’ll be there,’ then he fuckin’ means, ‘kay, I’ll be there.’ It’s that simple. My girl told me not to fall in love with her, or I’d be sorry. She told me she wouldn’t stay, no matter what happened. Thought it was just talk, so I didn’t listen, but she meant everything she said. Sometimes you just gotta take what people say. Pretty sure when it comes to you, Ian’s gonna say what he means.”

Regret slams into him like a wave, hard and fast, as Carl’s words sink in and he abruptly realizes what he’s done. The chance to spend the rest of his life with Ian Gallagher had been offered to him, and he turned his nose up at it because it didn’t happen the way he had expected it to. He sucks a breath in through his teeth and covers his face with his hands. “Fuck.”

Carl laughs and lets the chair fall back down, so he can lean forward and pat Mickey on the shoulder. “You wanna marry him or not?”

“Yeah. I do. I really do.”

“Then you’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, I’m gettin’ that.”

“I can text him, get him back over here for ya.”

Mickey lets his hands fall down to his sides and knocks his head back against the wall. “No, can you, uh, can you call Debbie instead?”

“Debbie? The hell you need her for?”

“Just fuckin’ do it.”

 

* * *

 

It’s eight in the evening when Mickey grudgingly accepts Ian’s probably not coming back to see him that day. So, of course, it’s five past eight when Ian comes strolling in through the door. He doesn’t look at Mickey, just plops down in the chair and pulls a blanket out of his bag. “They said I could stay again, so I’m going to. Because I want to be here. But I won’t bother you. You can pretend like I’m not even here.”

“Okay,” Mickey begins, as Ian pulls out a magazine as well. He flips it open to a random page and stares intently down at what appears to just be a giant ad for bladder control medication. “Can you take a break from being pissed for a second? Gotta talk to you ‘bout something.”

“‘M not pissed.”

“Yeah, _right_. Of course you’re not,” Mickey mocks. “You’re full of shit, Gallagher.”

“Fine, I’m pissed. Happy?” Ian snaps. “I might—I might not have gone about it in the best way, but I wasn’t bullshitting you, Mick. I’m not gonna ask you to fuckin’ marry me if that’s not what I want. It was never about the bills. Might’ve sped things up a little, sure, but I’ve wanted to—I've wanted to do that for a while. I was even planning it. Thought maybe I’d ask you at that diner we had our first date in, late so there’d be no one there to gape at us ‘cept maybe a couple of wasted college kids.”

Warmth spreads through Mickey, and he’s powerless to stop the grin stretching across his face. He’s itching to reach out and touch his boyfriend, to pull him into his arms and kiss him senseless. “And when was this plan ‘sposed to go into action?”

“I was thinking on our one-year anniversary,” he admits. “Is that stupid? Thought maybe it’d be too sentimental or whatever, but I figured that’d be long enough that you might not freak out, and we wouldn’t get a thousand and one lectures about jumping into things too soon from my family. It’d just be good, happy.”

“It’s not stupid.”

Ian shuts the magazine and tosses it to the floor. He runs a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m sorry if I fucked it all up. And it’s totally fine if it's not what you want, now or ever. But I need you to know I meant it.”

There’s a lump forming in Mickey’s throat, making it hard to talk or swallow. He can feel tears starting to build up in his eyes. He has to struggle to blink them away. He just needs to play it cool for another couple minutes. “Ay, can you do me a favor?”

Ian stares at him like he’s suddenly sprouted an extra head. “ _Can I do you a favor_ ,” he says slowly, emphasizing every word. “You want me to do you a favor. Right now. In the middle of the conversation we’re currently having.”

“Yeah, need you to get something out of the drawer for me.”

“You can reach the fuckin’ drawer yourself.”

“Nah, man, it’s shoved all the way in the back. Tried to get at it earlier.”

Ian huffs and shoots up from the chair. He practically rips open the small drawer of the bedside table and growls out, “What do you need?”

“You see a smallish box? Dark brown?”

The glossy box with the ridiculous black velvet ribbon wrapped around it catches in the light when Ian lifts it up and holds it in front of his face. “What’s this?”

“Open it and find out.”

“Just tell me what it is.” Ian looks at him and narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“It’s not a trick, Ian. Just open the box. Please.”

Ian still looks apprehensive, as he unties the ribbon and then slowly pushes open the cover. Mickey hears a sharp intake of breath when it comes off, but he can’t actually work up the courage to look at Ian’s face. “When did you get these?”

“Uh, well, _I_ didn’t technically get them. Sorta had Debbie do it for me. Since I couldn’t leave and all. She texted me a shit ton of photos from the pawn shop, and I told her the ones I liked. Thought, uh, thought you might like those ones, too.”

Ian gently sets down the box and then pulls out one of the silver bands to inspect it more closely. “Mickey Milkovich, did you just propose to me by asking me to do you a favor?” There’s a happy lilt to Ian’s voice that eases some of Mickey’s anxiety.

“Dude, you were the one who started all this,” he laughs, finally looking up. He’s relieved there are tears pooling in Ian’s eyes as well, because like hell he’s going to be the only one crying like an idiot during this. “I’m accepting _your_ proposal.”

“You sure about that? ‘Cos you’re the one with the rings.” Ian slips the band on to his ring finger and then holds it out in front of him. It’s plain and on the thin side and slightly tarnished. He wishes he could afford to give Ian more, but judging by the way Ian’s beaming down at the thing, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Jesus,” he breathes out. “Is this really happening?”

“You like it?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, nodding, “I do. I love it. My sister has good taste.”

“Ay, she only gets credit for texting me some fucking photos."

“Can’t believe you had Debbie pick out our rings. She must’ve been thrilled. She’s gonna be reminding us of this for the rest of our lives, I hope you know. And there’s gonna be no way of talking her out of throwing us that party now.”

“I got shot!” Mickey exclaims. “How exactly was I ‘sposed to walk down to the pawn shop myself, asshole?”

Ian bursts into laughter. Before Mickey can work out if that’s a good thing or not, the laughter turns into crying instead. “You couldn’t have put me out of my misery with a call or something?” Ian asks, lightly smacking Mickey’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Had to wait until I dragged my miserable ass over here myself?”

“It’s a surprise!” Mickey argues, holding up his hands in exasperation. “This, Ian, is what they call _romance_. Proposals should have some drama to ‘em, you know?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Ian grumbles back, as he runs his palms over his watery eyes. “Put yours on too, douchebag,” he adds, tossing the box at Mickey’s chest.

“Sure thing, tough guy,” Mickey chuckles. When the ring’s on, he lifts his hand for Ian to see. “How’s that look?”

Ian grasps his hand, turning it over and pressing a kiss to the heel of it, just above his wrist. “Looks perfect. You’re still an asshole though.” The bed dips, as Ian takes a seat on the edge of it and places one of his hands on Mickey’s jaw, smoothing his thumb across Mickey’s cheek. “You’re sure about this, right? You want this?”

“‘Course I do,” he whispers back. “The kid loves you. I love you. You’re it for me, Ian. There’s never been anyone else, and I’m pretty confident at this point there’s never gonna be anyone else. There’s just you. I want _you_ , for as long as I can have you."

Ian grins and tries to sniff back his tears. “I love you too, Mick. You and Yev. And you know I wasn’t—you know I want this too, right? I really want this.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Ian’s hand slides around to the back of his neck and pulls him forward. He thinks they’re about to kiss, but Ian just leans forward and presses their foreheads together. “I can’t believe you stole my proposal.”

“Didn’t steal shit. Just finished it up for ya. Now, stop whining and get over here.”

“Okay, bossy,” Ian says, before kissing him softly. When they break apart, Ian kicks off his shoes and then lays down next to him in the bed, resting his head on Mickey’s chest and letting one of his long legs drape across him. “Pretty sure this is against regulation.”

“Don’t care. My fiancé ain’t sleeping in that shitty chair.”

“Yeah? Only the best for me now, huh?”

“Damn right.”

Mickey shifts carefully, so he can wrap an arm around Ian’s shoulders and nudge him even closer. Ian pushes himself up slightly so that his face is buried in the crook of Mickey’s neck. The feeling of Ian’s breath washing over his bare skin makes him shiver. It’s almost overwhelming how much he loves the man wrapped around him in that moment. He can’t stop looking down at the silver ring and thinking about what it promises. It should scare him, committing to being with the same person for the rest of his life, especially with all the baggage stacked up between them. It should scare him, that the forever he wants so desperately might not actually be the future that waits around the corner for him, even with these rings on their fingers. It should scare him, that he’s gonna have himself a gay wedding in the South Side of Chicago.

But he doesn’t feel scared. He doesn’t feel scared at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. :)


	17. Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This can’t be normal, that she’s spent so many years mourning someone who’s still alive and better off without her, mourning someone who she only knew for a couple of blissful, heartbreaking minutes. She wonders if her daughter has brown eyes like hers. She hates herself for not being able to remember.

The house is a mess. Even after a grueling 12-hour workday, Debbie could barely sleep last night thinking about the pile of dishes in the sink and mountains of dirty clothes forming a makeshift fort around the washer and dryer.

That’s why Debbie spends the entire morning of her one day off that week scouring the place. If she doesn’t do it, she knows it could go on like this for weeks. The boys would rather live in squalor than lift a finger to help her, and who the hell knows where Fiona’s been lately. Her older sister has been keeping odd hours, missing dinner most nights and then wandering in at dawn with barely enough time to shower and leave for work. It’s a pattern Debbie recognizes, and the obvious conclusion is Fiona’s seeing someone again—that someone being Debbie’s boss. Sean and Fiona have been dropping anvil-sized hints about their renewed relationship, but Debbie has elected to play dumb until one of them stops being a pussy and just outright tells her.

After braving the utter disaster that was Liam and Chuckie’s room, Debbie considers giving up for the day. She’s worn out and a little nauseous, but there’s been a foul odor drifting from Frank and Carl’s room into hers for the last few days that she can’t bear to ignore any longer. So she takes one last deep breath and holds it before throwing open the bedroom door. She starts indiscriminately chucking all of their crap into a garbage bag. When she comes across a rotting sandwich just underneath the bed, she should feel disgusted, but she only feels relief. At least it won’t smell like they’re hiding a dead body in here anymore.

As she picks up the offending sandwich with gloved hands and throws it in with the rest of the trash, she catches a glimpse of a familiar book. She squints and grabs for it, surprised when the cover reads exactly as she thought it would— _Preparation for the GED Test_. Fiona bought it for her after it became clear nothing she could do or say would convince Debbie to go back to high school. How it traveled from the small bookshelf by Sasha’s crib to under the bed Frank and Carl spend most nights fighting over is beyond her. But seeing as Frank is one of the few Gallaghers with an actual high school diploma, Carl is the more likely thief.

“The fuck you doing?”

Carl’s leaning in the doorframe when she looks up. There’s a dark purple ring around one of his eyes and a long cut slashing across his forehead. A knot forms in her stomach, but she resists asking him about it. Showing any signs of worry just seems to piss Carl off these days. “What’s it look like? Cleaning up this dump. It smelled like something had died in here. You’d think a janitor would be better at keeping his own room sanitary.”

“I didn’t smell anything,” Carl says, shrugging. “And don’t call me that.”

“What? Janitor?” Carl glares at her in answer. She’s not sure why he’s so embarrassed about finally taking Lip up on the janitor job at the university. He makes better money than she does, but he acts like she’s personally insulted him whenever she asks how it’s going. “Whatever. Can you just try not to leave moldy sandwiches under you bed? You’re gonna turn this house into a biohazard.”

“What’s that?”

Debbie rolls her eyes. “If you don’t know then I guess you should keep reading this.” She throws the GED prep book at him. It smacks into his chest and then falls to the floor. “Didn’t know you wanted to get your GED. They offer night classes at the—”

“Who the fuck said I wanted my GED?” Carl snaps, cutting her off. “What the hell is that? I've never seen it before.”

“ _That_ ,” Debbie says, “is the GED prep book you stole from my room.”

“Didn’t steal shit from your room.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Debbie stands and peels the yellow gloves from her hands, tossing them into the garbage bag. “You doing anything today?”

Carl eyes her suspiciously, like the question's a trap. “Dunno. Why?”

“I thought I might take Sasha out for a while, go for a walk or something. Looks like it’s going to be a nice day. Maybe I’ll even go visit Ian and Mickey later. I don’t want to spend my entire day off cooped up in here.” Carl couldn’t look less interested in what she’s saying. “Come on, Carl. You should spend some time with your daughter.”

As if on cue, Sasha starts wailing. Carl flinches at the noise and scowls. “Got better things to do with my day.”

_Like what?_ Debbie almost challenges him, but there’s only so many times she can handle him rejecting her company. There’s something going on with him, but every time she even gets close to asking about it, he shuts down. “Fine,” she snaps back, ripping the garbage bag up from the floor and tying it shut a little more aggressively than necessary. “Do what you want."

Debbie means to just march away from him, but anger is boiling up inside of her. They used to be close, her and Carl. They didn't talk about their feelings or whatever, but they had always been pretty open with each other about what was going on in their lives. Now, most of the time, it feels like she’s talking to a stranger. “You know what,” Debbie starts, as she spins back around. Whatever words were going to come next die on her tongue when she sees Carl picking up the GED book. He stares intently down at the cover for a moment and then carefully tucks it back under the bed.

She looks away and continues downstairs. The urge to smile strikes her. She wants to tell Carl she’s proud of him, that he can do it if he wants it enough, but she’s too afraid he’d throw it back in her face or that her knowing about it would be enough to make him stop trying. She knows how slow and agonizing change can be, especially when other people are looking on, analyzing and questioning your every move. So she stays quiet and lets herself hope.

 

* * *

 

Fiona walks through the front door around nine, after Debbie’s already cleaned most of the house. Her dress is wrinkled and there are dark mascara smudges under her eyes. She’s happily humming a song to herself, as she practically dances into the kitchen and starts digging around inside of the fridge, seemingly oblivious to Debbie sitting at the table with Sasha on her lap.

“Have a good night?”

Fiona springs up, spilling orange juice down the front of her low-cut sundress. “Jesus, Debs!” she exclaims, holding a hand over her chest. “Didn’t see ya there.”

Sasha giggles and makes grabby hands in Fiona’s direction while trying her best to wiggle out of Debbie’s lap. Debbie holds Sasha tighter and turns her to the side slightly, so it’s harder for her to see Fiona. “Where you been all night?”

Fiona runs a hand over her face and looks down at the sparkling kitchen floor. “You clean in here?”

“Yeah, took me all morning.”

“Wow, thanks, Debs. That’s—”

“Where have you been?” Debbie asks again, more firmly this time. “You’ve been sleeping somewhere else so often, you should probably just let Carl have your room. Doesn’t seem fair for him to have to deal with Frank if you’re shacking up with some guy every night.”

Fiona frowns. “Carl knows he can have my room if I’m not here. And I’ll—I’ll be home more often now. It’s just, this is still new, you know? And I just—”

“Is it new? Is it really?” Debbie interjects. “Or is it old?”

“So,” Fiona sighs, leaning her elbows against the counter, “You know then?”

Debbie scoffs. “We all know, Fiona,” she says. “We’re not idiots.”

“I should’ve told you, huh?”

Debbie jerks her shoulders up. “I mean, he  _is_  my boss.”

“And  _you’re_  my sister,” Fiona says. “I was just nervous about it all, Debs. After the way it ended the last time, we wanted to take things slow, y’know? Make sure this is what we really wanted first, before we went runnin’ around blabbing about it to everyone. I didn’t want to jinx it.”

“And  _is_  it what you really want?”

A wide smile spreads across Fiona’s face. It should be comforting to see Fiona look so happy, but Debbie just feels pissed.  _It’s not fair,_ her mind screams out.  _It’s not fair._ “Yeah, it is. It’s been goin’ so great, Debs. I really think—”

“I gotta go,” Debbie interrupts, abruptly standing up from the chair. The quick motion startles Sasha, who clings tightly to Debbie’s shirt with tiny balled up fists and starts to whimper. “Can you take her? I’m gonna go—”

“Actually, I was kinda hoping you could take her for the day, if you don’t mind,” Fiona says. “I sorta told Sean I’d try goin’ fishing with him today and—”

“Jesus Christ,” Debbie mutters, brushing roughly past her sister. “Fine. I’ll do everything around here.” When she gets to the front door, she slips on her sandals and goes to leave, but Fiona catches her arm before she can turn the knob.

“You think this is a bad idea, don’t you? Me and Sean?”

Fiona sounds so painfully sincere when she asks the question. Debbie wishes she could smile and tell Fiona that everything will work out this time. She wishes she could assure her that Sean is a good guy, that he loves her. She wishes she wasn’t angry anymore, but there’s no mistaking the feeling consuming her in that moment for anything else. She’s angry at Fiona, for taking everything she wanted away from her. She’s angry at Fiona for daring to be happy when Debbie can barely muster up the will to get out of bed most mornings.

“You’re an adult. You don’t need my approval.”

Fiona recoils slightly, letting her hand drop from Debbie’s arm. “Maybe I just want to know what my sister thinks.”

“You want to know what I think? I think you’re gonna do whatever the fuck you want no matter what I think,” Debbie sneers. “Just try not to get me fired in the process, alright?”

Tears shine in Fiona’s eyes. “Sean wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t know about that. You’ve brought down better men than him.”

Fiona flinches again, like she’s been stung, and gapes at her. “Debbie, I—”

Debbie doesn’t stick around for whatever it is Fiona has to say. Nothing’s going to temper the rage and resentment and hurt kindling inside of her right now. Nothing’s going to make this better. Nothing’s going to bring her daughter or Derek or the life she used to dream about back. So she just leaves, slamming the door shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

Ian’s not answering his cell or his home phone but that doesn’t stop Debbie from boarding the first El train toward his apartment. Every time she closes her eyes, she’s confronted with the devastated look on Fiona’s face. She needs to talk to someone who might understand what she’s feeling, who might be able to tell her the secret to quelling these intrusive, irrational, hateful thoughts that are keeping a wall up between her and Fiona. She hopes he’s home. She knows he took a couple of extra days off to take Mickey home and get him settled in the apartment before he leaves for California with Lip.

“Well, isn’t she just the sweetest little girl.”

Debbie glances up to see a middle-aged woman with perfect hair and perfect nails holding on to the rail above her seat and smiling down at her. She’s beautiful and wearing clothes so far out of Debbie’s price range that she suddenly feels ridiculous in her ripped, frayed jean shorts and a Chicago Cubs t-shirt that probably used to belong to one of her bothers.

“What’s her name?”

“Sasha,” Debbie says. “Hey, Sasha, can you say hi? Say hi.”

“Hi!” Sasha squeaks out, dimples forming in her cheeks as she smiles. “Hi!” she calls out again, laughing to herself. “Hi! Hi!”

Debbie loves when Sasha laughs. It has to be the most wonderful sound in the world. Judging by the way the beautiful woman is grinning, she agrees. “Hello there, Sasha,” the woman coos. “You are just so sweet, aren’t you?" 

Debbie nods, feeling her chest swell with pride. For one amazing moment, she forgets that the little girl on her lap isn’t actually her daughter.

“She has the bluest eyes.”

The moment ends with that sentence, and Debbie finds herself on the verge of crying in front of this flawless woman. Sasha does have blue eyes—blue like Carl’s, not brown like Debbie’s. Her hair is dark and her nose is round. There’s nothing of Debbie to be found in Sasha. There’s nothing because Sasha isn’t her daughter, and she never will be.

“Uh, this is my stop. Sorry.” Debbie rushes past the woman and through the doors. This isn’t really her stop, but it’s close enough that she can walk the rest of the way. She’ll probably be sweaty and sunburned by the time she gets to Ian’s now, but it’s worth it. She couldn’t let that woman see her cry.

The tears stream silently down her cheeks. She maneuvers Sasha in her arms, so she can mop them up with the collar of the Cubs shirt. A few people passing by give her curious looks, but none of them stop to ask if she’s okay. She’d just brush them off anyways. There’s no way she’d be able to make anyone else understand what she barely understands herself. This can’t be normal, that she’s spent so many years mourning someone who’s still alive and better off without her, mourning someone who she only knew for a couple of blissful, heartbreaking minutes. She wonders if her daughter has brown eyes like hers. She hates herself for not being able to remember.

 

* * *

 

_Knock, knock, knock._  After a full minute of knocking with no response, Debbie’s about to give up and head to the diner down the street to wallow in her misery with a milkshake when she hears a flurry of movement on the other side of the door. “Ian?” she calls out, rapping her knuckles against the door again. “You in there? It’s Debbie!”

Debbie raises her eyebrows in surprise when Ian finally swings open the door. He looks really nice, even nicer than he does when he goes to work. He’s wearing a dark gray button-down shirt with a pair of perfectly pressed black pants. His hair is neatly slicked back, and the dress shoes he’s wearing almost look new.

“Wow, you going to a wedding or something?” Debbie laughs, looking him up and down. “You look so fancy.” Ian opens and closes his mouth a few times but doesn’t actually say anything. He looks borderline panicked, which only confuses her further. “Ian? You okay?”

“Um, yeah, Debs, yeah, hi,” he stutters out, not moving aside to her let her pass. “What are you doing here?”

“Why? I can’t come visit you now? Let me in, asshole.” When Ian still doesn’t move, Debbie feels herself frown. “Ian, what’s going on?”

“Well, uh, um—”

“Jesus, just let her in, Gallagher!” She hears Mickey’s voice call out from somewhere inside the apartment. “The jig’s up.”

Ian sighs and then finally steps out of the way, waving her inside. “I’m sorry, Debs. You just caught us at a, uh, weird time." 

After the door clicks shut behind her, Mickey limps out from the kitchen with a crutch under his left arm. He looks just as nice as Ian does, with a dark blue dress shirt and his hair as orderly as she’s ever seen it. “Hey, kid.”

“What the hell is going on?” she asks, looking back and forth between them. “I know you guys didn’t throw on your Sunday best just for the hell of it. Someone die?”

“Nah, your asshole brother made me,” Mickey huffs, like that explains anything.

“We should look nice!” Ian argues, throwing up his arms. “How many times are we gonna have this stupid fight?”

“We ain’t fighting, since you clearly already won,” Mickey grumbles, gesturing to his outfit. “And who we gotta look nice for anyway? Not like anyone’s gonna be there taking pictures.”

“Taking pictures of  _what_? One of you better tell me what’s happening, like, right now.”

“We’re uh—well, we, um—look, it’s just—”

Mickey rolls his eyes at Ian and takes it upon himself to answer. “We’re going down to the courthouse and gettin’ married in like five minutes. You’ve got some crazy timing.”

“Wait, what?” Debbie shouts. “What do you mean? You’re getting married in  _September_. Kev and V are all excited about you guys doing it at the Alibi, and you fuckers are just gonna what? Sneak off and do it at the fucking courthouse without telling anyone? Seriously?”

“Okay, can you dial it down like twelve notches and stop being such a fucking drama queen for a second? Fuck,” Mickey says, shaking his head. “We’re still gonna do the whole Alibi thing with everyone.”

“Then why—?”

“I need to get Mickey on my health insurance, the faster the better,” Ian explains. “With the California trip and Yevgeny at that camp and Svet and Mandy’s work schedules, the best we could do was September, and that’s just—it’s too far off.”

“Oh.” She bites her lip, feeling like an asshole for yelling at them now. “That makes sense. Sorry.”

“We knew if we told you guys, everyone would want to come, and then the people who couldn’t come would feel left out and we just—we just kind of wanted it to be our thing, you know?” Ian says. “It seemed like the best solution.”

Debbie smiles and nods. “It’s sweet. Sorry for barging in here and ruining it.”

“Didn’t ruin anything,” Mickey says, limping closer. “‘Long as you keep your trap shut about it.”

Debbie smiles wider at that. She likes the idea of being the only one in on their secret. It all seems so unexpectedly romantic for a couple whose go-to pet names are usually ‘asshole’ and ‘fuckhead.’ “I won’t say anything,” she promises.

“Thanks, we—”

“As long as you let me come, of course,” she adds quickly.

“Wow, didn’t see that coming,” Mickey drones. “Can’t do anything these days without a Gallagher getting all up in my business.”

“You didn’t seem to mind having a Gallagher all up in your business last night,” Ian teases.

A wicked grin forms on Mickey’s lips. “Told you I liked it slow.”

“Oh my god, stop there,” Debbie pleads, lifting a hand to cover one of Sasha’s ears. “You are in the presence of an innocent child.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, that won’t last long. Your little brother tried to hook me up with his weed dealer the other day for  _pain management._ ”

“Carl?”

“No, Liam,” Mickey says. “Shit, I remember when that kid was still in a highchair, and now he's trying to sell me drugs.”

Ian groans and covers his face with his hands. “Really? Goddamnit. He's supposed to be the good one.”

“We can talk about Liam's burgeoning criminal career later,” Debbie cuts in. “Can I come or what?”

“I don't know, Debs. Everyone’s gonna be so pissed at me if they find out we only invited you,” Ian says, brow furrowed. “Lip would throw a hissy fit.”

“No one needs to know! I told you, I’m not gonna tell anyone, and Sasha only knows a total of, like, seven words, so we’re good. This is the girl who picked out your wedding rings, remember? Please let me come. Please, please,  _please_.”

“Jesus, fine, you can come, just stop whining,” Mickey gives in. “The kid better not start screaming in the middle of it though,” he adds, shuffling over until he’s standing right in front of Debbie and Sasha. He reaches out and tickles Sasha’s stomach gently until she starts giggling. “You gonna be able to keep your yap shut, little one?” he asks, in as close to a baby voice as Mickey can probably manage. “Huh? You gonna be good for us?”

There’s warmth in Ian’s eyes while he watches Mickey playing with Sasha. The fondness is so apparent and so powerful that Debbie feels her stomach start tying itself together. This isn’t a time for jealousy. Out of everyone in their fucked up family, she thinks Ian might have somehow suffered the most. She should be happy that the stars have finally aligned for him, that he’s finally getting what he wants, but there’s an ugly part of her that can’t stop wondering when it’s going to be her turn to be happy.  _It's not fair_ , her mind screams again.  _It's not fair._

“Alright, let’s get going,” Ian says, nodding his head toward the door. “They’re only open for a few hours on Saturdays.”

Ian stays close to Mickey’s side during the walk to the car. His hand hovers over Mickey’s elbow, but Mickey bats it away every time Ian tries to steady him. “I got it, Gallagher,” she hears Mickey mutter. “Ain’t a fuckin’ invalid.”

“Okay, tough guy,” Ian chuckles, before walking around to the driver’s seat. “Whatever you say.”

 

* * *

 

There are a few other couples already there when they arrive. The three of them sit in the back, as women in flowy white sundresses and men in ties go up and say their vows. Ian and Mickey are the lone gay couple in the room, which attracts a few interested glances from the other people waiting. Mickey’s hands are curled into fists like he’s ready to fight, but no one says anything. A few people even send smiles their way, which Ian returns and Mickey pointedly ignores.

There’s an attractive couple up at the front saying their vows now. Debbie can’t hear what they’re saying, but she can see the looks on their faces. The man has started to cry, and Debbie can’t bear to watch them for another second.

“So, you guys got any straight friends you can invite to your second wedding?” Debbie asks, careful to keep her voice low. “I’d rather not be the only one without a date.”

“No one that doesn’t work at the diner or sling drugs,” Mickey says. “Sorry.”

“Ugh, no thanks. Been there, done that.”

“Jesus, I don’t wanna know,” Mickey groans.

“Aren’t there any guys in your classes?” Ian asks. “There’s got to be some options there.”

“They’re all either too young or too old or too stupid,” Debbie complains. “There’s one cute guy who seems kind of cool, but I spotted him holding hands with another dude the other day, so that’s not happening.”

“I don’t know then,” Ian says, shrugging. “Ask Lip. He can find you a smart one.”

“I’d rather die alone than ask Lip to set me up.” Mickey snorts, and Ian just shakes his head. “Mickey, as my newest brother, I think it should be your mission to find me a man.”

“Yeah, right, I’ll get right on that,” Mickey scoffs, but Debbie doesn’t miss the smile on his face. “Not gonna be easy, finding someone who can deal with your family.”

“Tell me about it,” Debbie agrees. “That house is always chaos. And there’s no way I’m ever getting fuckin’ Fiona off my ass.”

“Hey,” Ian begins, but Mickey cuts him off.

“I could’ve used a Fiona growing up,” he says, brushing his sweaty palms down the front of his slacks. “Couldn’t have been easy, raising all you hooligans.”

Ian smirks and drapes his arm around Mickey’s shoulders. “Nope,” he chuckles. “We gave her hell. She’s a fucking saint for not taking off on us.” Her stomach starts to twist again, as she watches them smile at each other, but she can’t tell if it’s out of jealousy or guilt this time.

 

* * *

 

The actual ceremony goes so much more quickly than Debbie had expected. They all walk up to the front of the courtroom, where an older man in a black robe is sitting behind a large desk, staring down at what’s probably a script. The man reads out the traditional vows— _to have and to hold, for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and health_ —for the boys to repeat.

Ian only gets a few lines through his before he starts tearing up. Mickey playfully pokes him in the gut when he starts having to choke the vows out. But when it’s finally Mickey’s turn, he blushes deep red and can barely even meet Ian’s eyes. It’s adorable and delightful and Debbie doesn’t look away even for a moment. None of them have a camera, so she tries to commit it all to her memory—the way they’re grinning at each other, the way Mickey’s thumb is rubbing small circles over Ian’s hand, the way Mickey’s hand trembles slightly when he pushes Ian’s ring on to his finger.

When tears starting pooling in Mickey’s eyes as well, Debbie can’t stop herself from crying right along with them. She sniffs a few times but tries to control herself, not wanting to freak Sasha out or pull any attention to herself.

Mickey grips Ian’s hands and tugs him forward when the man declares them married. When he instructs them to seal their union with a kiss, Debbie’s surprised that Mickey doesn’t hesitate or look around the room first. Instead, he just smirks as Ian places a hand under his chin and presses their lips together. It’s a quick, innocent kiss, but she’s shocked by it, by how sweet and natural it is. She thinks it might be the first time she’s ever seen them kiss.

“Congratulations,” the man says, as a woman in a pencil skirt walks around from the other side of the desk and hands Ian a piece of paper. “Have a great rest of your day.”

“Thank you,” Ian tells him, and Mickey nods. “Thanks so much.”

They walk out on to the steps and into the harsh afternoon sun. It’s a brutal change from the air-conditioned courthouse. “You crazy kids wanna go somewhere to celebrate?” Debbie asks, eager to be somewhere cooler. “Or you want to say out here sweating through your fancy clothes?”

Ian has his arm wrapped around Mickey’s back, even though being that close to each other can only be making them hotter. “You wanna go somewhere, husband?” Ian asks him, bumping their foreheads together. “Get a drink maybe?”

“Please don’t start calling me that,” Mickey gripes, though he looks amused. “And if we show up at the Alibi in these get-ups, everyone’s gonna know.”

“We’ll change first then.”

“Fine,” Mickey concedes. “I could use a drink, I guess.”

“Only soda. Maybe one beer. You’re not supposed to be drinking with those pain meds they got you on.”

“I’d like to see you try to stop me, Gallagher,” Mickey teases, jabbing Ian in the stomach again. “What’s a wedding if you don’t get drunk after, huh?”

“Yeah, alright,” Ian says, as he starts guiding Mickey toward the car. “Just take it easy.”

They walk down the stairs slowly, but Debbie goes still once they reach the bottom. It takes Ian and Mickey a few steps to realize she’s stopped. “Everything okay, Debs?”

“That was just—that was—” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “That was just really great. Thank you for letting me come.”

“Thanks for coming,” Ian says, finally letting go of Mickey to pull her and Sasha into a hug. “It was good to have you there.”

“I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Thanks, kid,” Mickey says. “We might not have gotten here without you, so y’know, thanks for that too.”

Debbie’s never actually considered that they might not have found each other again without her intervention. Ian and Mickey have always felt inevitable to her, even when they were apart. It’s not until they’re walking toward the car, Debbie hanging back a few steps behind them, that she realizes just how much they’ve had to overcome to reach this moment.

She remembers a night Ian had showed up to the house while everyone else was asleep. It was a few months after he had moved in with Lip. They all thought he was getting better and that the worst of the disease might finally be behind them, but that night had left her scared they might never get the old Ian back. He had been frantic and hopeless at the same time. He kept telling her he was broken. He kept saying he was worthless and alone and afraid. He kept saying he just wanted to die, so it wouldn’t hurt anymore. He agreed to go back to the doctor for another meds adjustment the next day and nothing that alarming has happened since as far as she knows, but sometimes her mind still wanders back to the shattered expression on her brother’s face.

It’s incredible that Ian’s here with them now, after all that. It’s incredible how ordinary and easy the smile on his face looks. “I’m so happy for you guys,” Debbie says again. “I just—you guys are good together.”

“Alright, alright, don’t go gettin’ all sentimental on us,” Mickey laughs, as he gets into the passenger seat with Ian’s help. "There'll be time for all that at the second wedding." 

“Thanks, Debs,” Ian says, squeezing her shoulder.

Debbie gets into the backseat again. She’s only an arm’s length away from the newly married couple, but it suddenly feels like she’s in an entirely separate universe. They’re staring at each other, communicating something with just their eyes. It hurts to watch, because she knows she’s never had that with someone. No one has ever been attuned enough to her feelings to know what she’s saying without her saying it. When Ian leans forward to kiss Mickey again, it feels like someone has stabbed her through the chest. Fuck, why can't she stop feeling this way? She thought having a child would be the answer to the loneliness she’s never quite been able to shake, but it’s only made everything so much worse. It’s only made her worse. What kind of monster can’t just be happy for her brother?

 

* * *

 

Looking at Ian and Mickey now, sitting on the barstools dressed in their normal faded jeans and baggy t-shirts, it’s almost like the wedding never happened. They’ve taken their rings off, but she think she sees the outline of Ian’s in his pocket. They’re acting like nothing’s changed, messing with the regulars and throwing teasing insults back and forth.

“So what are you guys thinking for flowers?” V asks, as she pours Debbie a cold beer. “Can’t afford much, but we can get some of those fake ones down at the dollar stores. Who the hell’s gonna notice anyways, right?”

“Don’t care,” Mickey says. “As long as there’s booze, I’m good.”

“Need to get drunk to marry me, huh?”

“Yeah, that or one of you should probably invest in a shotgun.”

“You two are impossible, you know that? Can’t answer one damn question without doing this,” she pauses and waves her hand between Ian and Mickey, “back and forth shit. I’m just gonna plan the damn thing myself, and you don’t get to complain if you don’t like it.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great, V,” Ian says. “We trust you.” Ian goes to take another drink of his soda, when his ringtone starts playing. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sighs. “It’s work, gotta take it. Be right back.” He shoots up from the stool and heads outside.

“What kind of cake do you guys like?” V asks.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. Cake is cake.”

“Okay, I am gettin’ real sick of you being a sourpuss about this, Mickey Milkovich,” V says, putting her hands on her hips. “Stop trying to play it cool and act like you ain’t madly in love with that six-foot ginger hunk out there, okay? Weddings are fun! Loosen up!”

“Nothin’ fun about a bunch of people staring at you and taking pictures and shit,” Mickey argues. “It’s fuckin’ awkward.”

“It’s better when you actually like the person you’re marrying,” V assures him. “At least this time you got the gender right.”

Mickey snorts into his beer and flips her off. “Fuck you. I like chocolate cake, alright?”

“And what about Ian?”

“Who the fuck doesn’t like chocolate cake?”

Before V can respond, a door slams open and Kev comes barreling in to the bar from upstairs. “Angela just fuckin’ quit on us! No notice!” he shouts, eyes wide. “She just called. Went and ran off with that douchebag boyfriend with the mohawk. Can you believe it? No respect.”

"No she did not,” V hisses. “Wait ‘til I get my hands on that bitch.”

“That’s gonna be real hard, seeing as she’s in fuckin’ Idaho. The fuck’s in Idaho?”

“Potatoes?” Mickey offers, making Debbie laugh.

“Shut your fuckin’ smart mouth, Milkovich,” V snaps at him. “Jesus, we’re fucked. We’re gonna have to get someone else to watch the girls if we both gotta be here all the time and—”

“Wait,” Kev interrupts, looking away from V to stare intensely at Mickey. “Hold on, I think—I think I have an idea. Just, wait, let me think for a second.”

Mickey starts to squirm in his stool. “You gotta think starin’ at me, man?”

“You hate working at Patsy’s, right?”

“I, uh, I mean—”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Debbie interjects. “What’s wrong with the Patsy’s?”

“Okay, okay,  _hate_ is a strong word,” Kev amends. “But wouldn’t a bar be more up your alley, Mickey? We can’t offer you nothin’ fancy like healthcare or benefits or whatever, but the pay’s not bad since we’re actually making a profit, and you can make a shit ton of tips just by being mean to the hipsters. And I know how much you like being mean. Swear at ‘em a little, and they’ll love you.”

Mickey perks up in his chair. “You offering me a job here?”

“You already have a job!” Debbie exclaims.

“Yeah, one with shit tips and shit uniforms,” Mickey huffs back. He immediately looks guilty and adds, “Sorry, Deb.”

“Fuck yeah, I’m offering you a job. ‘Specially since those scary neighborhood motherfuckers won’t be so willing to mess with us with you around. I mean, if that’s alright with you V?” He turns to his wife, and she shrugs.

“He been showing up to all his shifts at the diner?” V asks Debbie. “Working hard?”

Debbie scowls in Mickey’s direction but answers honestly, “Yeah, he’s a good worker.”

“You know how to make drinks?” she directs to Mickey.

“‘Course I fuckin’ do,” Mickey says. “And if someone asks for one of those dumb girly drinks, I’ll Google it or something.”

V sighs but holds out her hand for Mickey to shake. “Then it’s fine by me.”

Mickey grins but looks a little sheepish when he notices Debbie glaring at him. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I’m just sick of smelling like French fries all the time and sweating myself to death in that kitchen. And you gotta admit, a bar’s way more my thing, right? Come on. This is good.”

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.”

“Sweet!” Kev says, clapping Mickey on the shoulder. “Soon as you’re good to stand up all day, you can start. Or we can just set up a cripple stool for you or something back here, I guess. I don’t know, we’ll figure it out. Man, this is gonna be so great. And consider the wedding on us, alright?”

“Excuse me?” V cocks her head to the side at Kev. “What did you just say?”

“Come on, V. It’s the least we can do.”

“We ain’t running a fucking charity here, Kev.”

“Fine, fine,” Kev says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Open bar for family only, okay?”

Ian comes back in just as V nods in reluctant agreement. “Sorry about that,” he says, slipping into the stool between Mickey and Debbie. “What’s up?” he asks, glancing between the four of them. “Something happen?”

“Yeah, Mickey just fucking quit on me.”

“What?”

“Kev offered me a job here since Angela quit,” Mickey explains. “Sounds good, right?”

“No shit? That’s so great!” Ian looks genuinely happy when he pulls Mickey into a side hug and smiles at Kev. He looks proud and relieved and all sorts of other things. The expression on his face reminds her of the way Fiona had looked at her when Debbie finally admitted she was taking night classes at the community college.

_I could’ve used a Fiona growing up._ Ian and Mickey’s words from earlier start ringing in her ears.  _We gave her hell. She’s a fucking saint for not taking off._

It’s been such a nice day, but she suddenly feels sick. “Hey, uh, I hate to ask, but can you guys watch Sasha for me?" 

“Sure, you okay?” Ian’s eyes dart around her face. “You look pale.”

“Think it’s just the heat getting to me. I’m not feeling great,” she says, transferring Sasha into Ian’s open arms. “I’m gonna go home and try to get some sleep. Drop her off whenever.”

She hears them all calling out for her to feel better, but she doesn’t turn around to acknowledge it. She just wants to get out of there. She just wants to be alone, so she can start sorting through all of the thoughts racing through her head.

 

* * *

 

Whenever she expects the Gallagher house to be empty, it never is. So she really shouldn’t be surprised when she walks inside, ready for some silence and solitude, only to find Fiona sitting on the living room couch staring blankly at the television. There’s some kind of nature documentary playing, but the volume is so low, Debbie can’t make out what the narrator’s talking about.

“Why’re you home?”

Fiona doesn’t look away from the screen, just mumbles something inaudible in response.

Debbie looks around the house and realizes it’s now completely spotless. Fiona must have picked off right where Debbie left off with the cleaning that morning. “Have you been home all day? Thought you were going out with Sean?”

“Didn’t go.” Fiona’s voice sounds dull and tired.

“Why?”

“Where’s Sasha?”

“With Ian and Mickey. Why didn’t you go?”

Fiona looks away from the television and meets Debbie’s eyes. “You’re more important to me than any guy, okay?” she says. “If me and Sean getting back together makes you uncomfortable, or if you think it’s a bad idea, then that’s that. I don’t wanna let you down any more than I already have, Debs. I’m done letting you down.”

The declaration is a punch to her gut, and she can’t help but feel like she doesn’t deserve it. It’s been easier to blame Fiona for losing her daughter. It’s too painful to blame herself or to remember scrawling her own signature on to all of those papers, signing her daughter away forever. The adoption is what Fiona wanted, but Debbie made her own decision in the end.

“I’m so angry,” Debbie hears herself saying. She can’t believe she’s confessing it now, after all this time, especially to Fiona. “That lady they made me talk to at the hospital kept saying I was grieving when they—when they took her away. She said there were five stages, that I’d eventually come to accept it. That I could be happy again. But I’m still stuck in anger. I’m still so angry.”

She must be crying, because Fiona moves toward her and uses her thumbs to clear the moisture from Debbie’s cheeks. “I know, Debs. I know.”

“But you don’t know!” Debbie cries out, backing away from her sister's touch. “None of you know! I loved her, Fiona. I wanted—I just wanted to be a mother so badly.”

Fiona’s crying too now, her face all twisted up like it gets when she’s upset. “I know. I know that. But I didn’t—I didn’t want you to end up like me. I love you all so much, but I’ve been a mother since I was  _six-years-old_. I never got to travel or finish school or chase some stupid dream. I don’t regret it. I don’t regret it for a second, but I wanted you to have a different life than me, Debs. You’re so smart. You have so much to offer. I didn’t want you to be trapped here with me.”

Debbie sniffs and presses her palms over her eyes. “I would’ve been a good mother. I would’ve been happy. I  _know_  it.”

“You can still be a good mother,” Fiona tells her. “You can still be happy. You’re going to be a great mother someday. You still have so much life in front of you. You know that, right? You’re gonna meet someone worthy of you, and you’re gonna have a gaggle of freckly little kids with him, if that's what you want.” She tries to rub Debbie’s shoulder, but Debbie shrugs her off. “Look, I don’t know if I did right by you, Deb. Maybe—maybe I was wrong, telling you to give her up. I don’t know. I’ve never known what I was doing with you guys, but I  _tried_. I’m still trying.”

There’s desperation in Fiona’s voice. There’s love, too. The sound of it calms some of the anger pulsing through Debbie’s veins. She doesn’t want to feel this way anymore. She's so tired of being angry. She wants to be close to Fiona again. She wants to be able to look at happy couples without feeling like she’s going to throw up. She wants to hold Sasha without thinking about what she’s lost.

“I’m sorry if I fucked it all up. I’m sorry if I ruined things for you.”

Debbie shakes her head, because  _no, no, no_. Fiona shouldn’t think that. Fiona should never think that. Her older sister has never been a perfect woman, but she stayed when no one else did. She stayed when Monica and Frank abandoned them over and over and over again. “I don’t think that, Fiona. I don’t want to feel like this.”

“I know, I know. I get it.”

Debbie breathes deep and then exhales through her nose like she catches Carl doing sometimes. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a raging bitch to you.”

Fiona snorts, running the sleeve of her shirt over her watery eyes. “We’ve all had our moments. Lord knows I’m not always easy to live with. I’m sorry too, Debs. I think—I think I got caught up on my own shit when you got pregnant. I just wanted things to be better for you. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t want to have another kid to raise. So much for that, I guess.”

“I’m trying to make it worth it,” Debbie says softly.

“Trying to make what worth it?”

“Me giving her up,” Debbie answers. “I’m going to try to make something of myself, or what’s the point, you know? That’s why I decided to go back to school. Might not amount to anything, but at least I tried.”

“You’re gonna do great things,” Fiona says, cautiously reaching out to rub her shoulder again. This time Debbie lets her. “You hear me? You’re gonna do great.”

Debbie gasps out something between a laugh and a sob and then throws herself into Fiona’s arms. Her sister returns the embrace, fingertips digging into her back. There’s something about being wrapped up in Fiona’s arms that makes her feel like she’s finally come home. “Does Sean make you happy?” Debbie asks, voice muffled by Fiona’s shoulder.

“Yeah, hon. He does.”

“Then you should be with him. You should be happy.”

“You guys have always made me happy too, you know. Happier than anything else.” Debbie just nods against her, letting her tears soak into Fiona’s shirt. “You wanna go get food or something? We can talk things out. Just us girls. What d’you say?”

Debbie’s too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to even think about leaving the house. She suspects if Fiona weren’t holding her up, she might melt right into the carpet. “It’s been a long day. I really just want a nap.”

“God, a nap sounds fuckin’ amazing right now,” Fiona laughs, brushing a hand gently through Debbie’s hair. “You’re right. Let’s do that instead, while the boys have Sasha.”

They finally release each other, both sniffling and red-faced but smiling. “You should call Sean first,” Debbie suggests. “He’s probably freaking out.”

“Yeah? You think so?”

“Yeah,” Debbie says. “You deserve to be happy, Fi. We all do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is Lip and then the last three chapters will all be from Ian's or Mickey's POVs.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I can't believe there are only 4 chapters left. Thank you all for sticking with me and leaving such awesome comments. :)


	18. The Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being alone doesn’t really bother him. It’s the suspicion that he’s failing at something everyone around him has already figured out that grates.

“Mind if I take the window seat?”

“Go for it, man.”

Ian smiles and slips past Lip to sit down. Even seated, Ian can’t seem to stay still. One of his legs is bouncing up and down, and he keeps reaching out and touching things—the armrests, the small egg-shaped window, the inflight magazine, the folded up tray table. Ian’s been a walking bundle of nervous, excited energy since they loaded their suitcases into the car that morning. Lip suspects the novelty of the whole thing will wear off after a few hours of Ian not being able to stretch out his long legs in their cheap coach seats, but, for now, his enthusiasm is infectious. So infectious that Lip’s not even all that pissed when he notices a couple with a baby sit two rows in front of them.

“Is there gonna be food?”

“Yeah, there’s snacks and drinks. And there’ll be dinner choices. Usually two for us little people.”

“That’s so cool.”

Lip snorts. “I hate to break this to you, but airplane food is notoriously shitty.” 

Ian shrugs and keeps looking around, like there’s something worthwhile to be seen in here instead of just hordes of harried travelers ambling down the aisles like over-caffeinated zombies. “Whatever, it’s still cool. I’m sure we’ve had worse meals anyways. Remember that soggy hot dog casserole thing Monica used to make us? It looked and smelled like barf, but she somehow got it into her head that it was our favorite. What a waste of perfectly good hot dogs.”

The mere memory of that watery, gelatinous mess being placed in front of them on the kitchen table is enough to make Lip a little nauseous. “That was all your fault. You were the one who told her it was good the first time she made it.”

“I just didn’t want to hurt her feelings. The tiniest thing set her off back then. And I don’t remember you or Fiona disagreeing with me.”

“Well, we didn’t want to be the assholes after you went and gushed about it,” Lip says. “You know, one time I threw that shit up all over the backyard, and I swear it looked more appetizing coming out than it did going in. Pretty sure the neighbor’s dog ate it.”

“Jesus, stop, please,” Ian chokes out, coughing over what might have been a retch. His face is scrunched up in disgust when he asks, “Why the fuck did I even bring that demon casserole up? Talk about something else. Anything else.”

Lip smirks. “So weak,” he teases, nudging his brother’s shoulder with his own. “But, for a less revolting topic of conversation, I’ve been researching some stuff we can do once we get there.” He swipes open his phone and taps on the notepad, pulling up a list of destinations. “Even found a few high-quality gay clubs in the area for your bachelor party.”

“Um, excuse me? Bachelor party?” Ian scoffs and shakes his head. “That’s not happening. Absolutely not. And how the hell would you know if a gay club is _high-quality_?” he asks, bracketing the last words with air quotes.

“Because I sacrificed hours of my valuable time reading about a hundred asinine Yelp reviews to find the best ones,” Lip says. “So we’re going. Need to make sure my little brother lives it up a little before getting tied down to one dude for the rest of his life.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to a gay club with you. What would you even do?”

“I don’t know. Drink. Get hit on a lot, probably. Maybe I’ll luck out and there’ll be a bachelorette party there. If that’s the case, you might have to sleep in the hallway.”

Ian barks out a laugh. A wide grin splits his face, and Lip starts laughing along with him. “You are so fucking full of yourself. We are _not_ going to a club, so you can get that out of your head right now. I’ve seen enough sparkly booty shorts for one lifetime, thank you very much.”

“Aw, come on,” Lip whines, jabbing Ian in the shoulder. “You seriously don’t want a bachelor party? Do you have no respect for tradition?”

“Marrying another dude isn’t exactly tradition, is it?” Ian laughs in response. There’s a dreamy sort of look in his eyes when he continues, “I really just want to see the ocean. Plus, I’m sure there will be some half-naked dudes to ogle there. And they won’t be trying to seduce us out of our money, so there’s that.”

“Alright, alright,” Lip gives in, holding up his hands. “No dudes in thongs, then. We’ll go down to the pier, see some shit and then walk down to the beach, okay?” Ian nods, looking relieved, and then rests his head against the wall. He’s staring out the window even though they haven’t taken off yet and all there is to see is some concrete and guys in reflective vests. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, so convincing,” Lip mocks. “Already regretting turning down my bachelor party idea?”

Ian smacks Lip’s arm with the back of his hand. “No. I was just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“I just—I kind of wish Mickey could’ve come, you know? I feel bad that he won’t get to see everything with me. The only times he’s been out of the state were for drug runs and going with you to pick my crazy ass up.”

Lip’s not proud that his first reaction to Ian’s admission is annoyance. There’s a familiar churning in his gut—a twisting, tightening ache he always feels when things don’t go exactly his way. His hands always itch do something when he feels this way, to strike out and push the problem away. They curl into fists on their own accord, fingernails biting down into his palms. “You guys can go wherever the fuck you want once Billy the Kid finally gets off parole.”

It’s meant to come out as a joke, but there’s a note of bitterness weaving through his words that Ian clearly picks up on. His little brother’s eyebrows knot together, and there’s a hint of a frown pulling at his lips. “You still don’t like him, do you?”

Lip exhales loudly through his nose. _Don’t do this right now, Ian._ If Ian didn’t look so goddamned sad all of a sudden, Lip would’ve snapped that at him. This isn’t a talk he wants to have. He hoped they could go the entire trip without Ian’s fiancé coming up in conversation. He doesn’t see why his opinion on Mickey should matter anyways. They found each other without Lip’s help or blessing, and they would certainly get married without it either.

“I don’t know,” is the answer Lip settles on. It feels the closest to the truth. He doesn’t hate Mickey, never really has. In some ways, he’s even glad that Mickey is the one Ian chose in the end. Sure, there are more cons than pros in the mental list Lip created the day Ian revealed they were together again. But one of those pros far outweighs all of the cons—that Mickey has actually taken the time to understand Ian’s illness, that he’s experienced the worst of it and hasn’t run far, far away. It’s not an easy thing, loving someone like Ian. Some of his exes mistook Ian’s stability as a permanent state, but bipolar disorder is something that’s managed more than it’s conquered. It’s a relief that Mickey understands that. It’s a relief that when Ian leaves their apartment for good, at least he’ll be with someone who knows to look for the warning signs, who knows there’s a decent chance it can all come crashing down again.

He wishes he could just be happy about the marriage. He really does. He wishes he could erase the con side of his list from his mind and only focus on the good. But the sinking feeling in his stomach every time Ian talks about the wedding or their new apartment or their future together is impossible to ignore. The memories of Ian coming home covered in blood and bruises, of Ian not being able to get out of bed for a week, of Ian’s easy smiles becoming awkward and forced, of Ian being there one moment and gone the next are all still so painfully vivid and so intrinsically linked to Mickey Milkovich in his mind. Logically, he knows Mickey’s not ultimately at fault for what happened to Ian. There must have already been something dangerous lurking in him that they all missed and that would have been triggered had Mickey come along or not. That doesn’t stop Lip from blaming Mickey for Ian running away. That doesn’t stop Lip from blaming Mickey for Ian coming home a broken man.

“I thought you guys were getting along better. You’ve been friendly. That all an act or something?”

“No, it’s not—no. We are, getting along better or whatever,” Lip says. “It’s just my own shit, Ian. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Lip sighs and scrubs his hand over his face. He’s not sure how Ian can still have these stupid, romantic notions in his head of everyone getting along after all the shit he’s been through. “Look, I’m trying. I’m the best man at this thing, right? Not like I plan on objecting. Why’s it matter what I think anyways?”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Ian’s lips. “‘Cos you’re my brother, asshole,” Ian says, a light chuckle in his voice. “And probably my best friend.”

“Mandy’s your best friend, and she likes Mickey just fine.”

“I’m allowed to have two best friends,” Ian argues, elbowing him in the ribs. “This feels right, Lip. Everything with Mickey. I finally feel like I _fit_ somewhere. I haven’t—I haven’t really been sure of anything since the diagnosis. I’ve been second-guessing everything I do and feel for so long that—god, I don’t know. I’m sure about this. It feels good to be sure of something for once.”

Lip nods like he understands what Ian’s telling him. But the truth is none of Lip’s relationships have ever really felt right to him. Not even with the woman he was able to convince himself he loved. Sometimes he worries he’s missing some essential piece and that he’ll never be able to _fit_ with another person like he’s supposed to. Being alone doesn’t really bother him. It’s the suspicion that he’s failing at something everyone around him has already figured out that grates. “Then you’re doing the right thing,” Lip assures him. “Seriously, man, don’t let me psyche you out. I’m working on it.”

Lip can tell Ian’s not satisfied with that answer by the way his jaw is working, but all he says is, “Alright, well, that’s enough of that then.”

Lip raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“I’m not going all the way to California with you just so we can have a bunch of uncomfortable conversations about my love life,” Ian explains, clapping him on the back. “Let’s just have fun. The last big hurrah for the Gallagher brothers before we become boring-ass adults constantly worrying about their careers and bills and shit. Thanks for inviting me along.”

“Uh, yeah, that sounds good.” Lip’s surprised that Ian’s willing to drop the issue so quickly, but he’s not about to argue with it.

The airplane roars and starts to rumble. A deep voice instructs them over the speaker to put on their seatbelts and pay attention to the safety presentation. Ian’s fingertips are tapping impatiently against his knees as the plane begins to move. “Can’t believe we’re gonna be fucking flying. This is so cool.” The smile on Ian’s face is genuine and bright and Lip feels strangely proud he’s the one who has made him that happy.

 

* * *

 

The presentation goes better than Lip could have ever expected. None of his worst fears came to pass—that he would be talking to a hall full of only empty chairs and a bored Ian, that he would be bombarded with skeptical, impossible questions from people who didn’t really care about his answers, that people simply wouldn’t give a shit, opting to play with their cellphones or walk out while he continued to drone on about his findings. Instead, the seats were filled and he never lost the audience’s attention once. Instead, he answered their questions eagerly and easily.

When he exits the auditorium, he can barely breathe. It’s invigorating, this feeling of accomplishment. All of his concerns about forgoing the money and risk of joining a startup company to keep studying and teaching begin to fade away. It feels like something has just snapped into place inside of him. Maybe this is where he fits, standing up in front of like-minded people and sharing his ideas. Maybe this is where he belongs.

He looks around for his brother, needing someone to confirm that went as well as he thought it did, but Ian’s nowhere to be found.

“Excellent discussion, Mr. Gallagher! Well done!”

“Thank you!” He waves to the older man who called out to him, aware that he’s probably grinning like a crazy person. “Appreciate it!”

A few more people stop by to shake his hand and offer their admiration, and holy shit does it feel good. But his exhilaration abruptly plummets when he catches sight of his own hand reaching out toward a fellow PhD student’s. After the student has left, he lifts the offending hand up in front of his face and stares at intently. It’s shaking. Both of his hands are shaking, in fact. The folder in his left hand almost falls to the floor when the realization hits him, but he hugs it close to his chest.

_How long has it been?_ He mentally retraces his steps and remembers finishing his last drink the previous night—a whiskey at the hotel bar—and then Ian convincing him to turn in early. He looks at one of the clocks on the wall and counts backwards—twelve hours. It’s only been twelve fucking hours. He takes a step forward but stops quickly, as nausea washes over him. Fuck, did he feel like this during the presentation? Was he just too hyped up to notice? He runs a hand through his hair and cringes when he discovers he’s sweating. Is it hot in here? Is he getting sick?

“Shit,” he mutters to himself. His heart is beating faster than it probably should be, but he can’t tell if that’s from adrenaline or something else. _Fuck, I need a drink._ The thought feels like an intrusion, a betrayal. He quickly forces himself to amend it. _I deserve a drink._ That’s better. Today is a big day for him, and it’s natural to celebrate it with a drink. It’d be strange if he didn’t. People always drink when they’re happy, when they’ve won something. This is normal.

“You were great in there.” A woman stops in front of him. She looks considerably older than him but attractive. Her dark blonde hair is pulled back into a sleek, professional bun. She isn’t wearing makeup or, if she is, she’s done an exceptional job of making it look natural. When she smiles at him, he feels like he’s just been given a gift, like someone’s just hung his report card up on the fridge or put a gold star next to his name.

“You saw my presentation?” The question is bullshit, and the nonchalance in his voice sounds artificial to his own ears. The truth is he noticed this woman the moment she walked into the room. Now that she’s standing in front of him, he worries he spent an excessive amount of time staring at her while he spoke. There was something about her face that made him feel confident, like if he could just keep her attention, everyone else would follow.

She smirks at him slyly. She knows he noticed her, but she likes that he’s pretending he didn’t. “Yes, it was very enlightening.” She reaches out her hand. “I’m Alice Martin-Phillips, from the University of Chicago. I always make sure to support my fellow Chicagoans.”

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._ His hand is unsteady and clammy. He doesn’t want this woman to know how pathetic he is, but he can’t exactly wave her away either. He recognizes her name, knows her work, and he can’t afford to throw this kind of acquaintance away. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, as smoothly as he can manage. He subtly brushes the palm of his hand over his suit jacket before taking her hand, hoping she’ll attribute the slight tremors to nerves. “I admire your work.”

“Oh, do you?” She cocks an eyebrow at him, and fuck is it sexy. She’s still grasping his hand when she asks, “Perhaps you’d like to discuss it over dinner then? I know an excellent place near her, and I’d love the chance to get to know you better.”

A brilliant, beautiful woman is asking him to dinner, but something inside of Lip is screaming at him to _run_. He loves and hates the way she’s looking at him. Helene used to look at him like this when he said or did something particularly clever. Being with Helene was like a game. He was always scrambling for something impressive to say, so he could be rewarded with one of her fascinated smiles. So he could feel like something more than he was.

He should agree, if only for his career, but the nausea is starting to get worse and it suddenly feels like the lights in the hallway are too bright. “I, uh, I’m sorry, that sounds great, but I actually have plans for the rest of the day,” Lip says. “I’m not sure how long you’re in town, but maybe we could do breakfast tomorrow?” He’ll be okay by tomorrow. He just needs to calm down. He just needs a— _no, no, don’t think that_.

“Yes, of course, breakfast sounds lovely. I know a great place for that, too.” If she’s disappointed by the change in plans, she doesn’t show it. She just plucks a card from the pocket of her blazer and hands it to him, letting her fingers linger a little too long over his. “My husband will be joining. I'll let you know where to meet us."

_My husband._ He almost laughs at the words. He probably should have seen it coming. The moment she turns away from him, he lets out a long, shaky breath and moves toward the doors. He’s walking too fast, but he doesn’t really care what the people he’s shoving aside think. He just needs to get back to the hotel.

When he finally enters the room he and Ian are sharing, he lets his papers spill across the floor and kneels down in front of the mini-bar. He goes for the miniature bottle of whisky first, screwing off the top and drinking over half of it in one gulp. It burns in his throat, but it tastes good, too good. Just that much is enough to soothe his fidgeting hands, but he still can’t quite quell the sour feeling in his gut.

“That shit’s expensive, man. You’re lucky the school’s footing the bill.” Lip doesn’t notice Ian has walked in until he speaks. And, god, does he feel like an asshole. He was in such a hurry, he didn’t even think that Ian would probably be looking for him. “Why’d you take off so fast?”

The urge to snap at Ian to leave him alone strikes quickly and almost overpowers him. He hates that his brother has walked in on him like this, on the floor drinking obscenely marked-up liquor from tiny bottles, even if it doesn’t seem to faze him. He swallows the ugly impulse down and forces himself to stand back up. “Some crazy dude wouldn’t leave me alone,” he lies. “Just wanted to get away.”

“Ah, I hear you.” Ian nods and kicks off his shoes. “Some lady cornered me in the hall after you finished. Kept saying she wanted to paint me or something. Liked my hair a lot. Probably has some kind of redhead fetish. So fucking weird.”

Lip snorts. “Sorry, these academic types can be a little socially awkward.”

Ian shrugs. “She was impressed when I said you were my brother. You did really great in there, you know. I mean, I didn’t get a fucking word of what you were saying, but I could tell everyone else was digging it.” Ian looks sincerely proud of him when he pulls Lip into a side hug and claps him on the shoulder. “That was awesome.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Everyone in there looked like they wanted to blow you.”

Lip laughs, loudly and openly. “Fuck off." 

“I’m serious!” Ian exclaims. “Come on, let’s go somewhere and celebrate your achievements. Somewhere with cheaper drinks, preferably,” he adds, nodding toward the mini-fridge. “And more food.”

Lip would prefer to stay in the room, finish off what’s left in the fridge, feel bad for himself while wallowing in the memory of a certain other older, blonde professor, and then wander down to the hotel bar to cap off his night in a spectacularly drunk fashion. He’s not really hungry, and he sure as hell would rather be alone, but he’s determined not to ruin this trip with his own shit. That’s part of the reason why he wanted Ian here with him so badly, so he wouldn’t succumb to his familiar patterns and make a fool out of himself in front of people with the influence to blackball him from these kinds of events in the future.

“Sure, man,” he agrees, doing his best to hide his reluctance. “Got somewhere in mind?”

 

* * *

 

The place they settle on is on the divey side, just the way they like it. Lip instantly feels more relaxed when they walk into the dark bar. There’s something soothing about the shitty music and the way the table is just a little sticky. When the waitress brings over his first beer, he’s careful not to drink it too quickly. But as the glass steadily grows emptier, his queasiness finally starts to subside, and he orders the biggest, greasiest burger they’ve got on the menu with a side of onion rings.

Ian listens intently as Lip recounts every detail of the presentation, even though he was there for the entire thing. If he’s bored, he does a hell of a job of hiding it. Ian’s interest doesn’t waver once and when he smiles like he really cares, Lip feels like his chest is suddenly too tight. All of the drinks have made him a little lightheaded and his tongue a little looser than usual. He worries if he doesn’t change the subject now, he’ll do something idiotic like cry or tell Ian the real reason he took off so quickly after the presentation.

“So this hot, married professor kind of asked me out. Serious case of déjà vu.”

Ian snorts into his water. “How much older than you is she?”

“Hard to say,” Lip says, with a smirk. “Maybe ten, twenty years.”

“Jesus. You sure she’s not the secret twin of that batshit lady you used to date?”

“Looked just like her,” Lip admits.

“You’re like a magnet for crazy. That’s not a rabbit hole you need to go down again,” Ian says. “You turn her down?”

“Nope, I told her I’d get breakfast with her and her husband tomorrow.” Ian gapes at him, and Lip shrugs. “Didn’t really have a choice. She’s pretty important in my field. Getting on her good side could be good for me. Plus, I was thinking you could come with me, make sure I don’t do anything retarded like fuck her in the bathroom while her husband’s eating his toast.”

Ian doesn’t say anything for a long moment, opting to just stare at his brother with narrowed eyes. “I’m not sure I can find the words to express how much I _don’t_ want to do that. I’m not gonna have any idea what you’re all talking about.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Lip says. “They’ll love you anyways. They’ll be so charmed by you that they’ll mistakenly think I’m charming too. Win-win.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I mean it! And I really do need you to make sure I don’t end up fucking her in the bathroom. That wasn’t a joke.”

Ian laughs out loud. He chokes and some small pieces of his chicken sandwich shoot out on to the table. Lip grins, as Ian has a coughing fit that finally dies down when he finishes off almost his entire glass of water. “Jesus, fuck,” Ian gasps, slapping his chest. “You’re an adult, Lip. I can’t be following you around making sure you don’t fuck married woman.”

“Come on, just this once. She was really, _really_ hot.”

“Fucking fine,” Ian relents. “But I’m blaming you when I end up embarrassing myself.”

“You’ll be fine.” Lip holds up his hand and waves to the waitress. She’s a pretty brunette with dimples in her cheeks and perfect tits who laughs too loudly every time he says something even remotely funny. If Ian weren’t with him, he’d probably end up taking her back to his room. “Hey, hon, can we get two more beers?”

“Just one,” Ian corrects. “None for me." 

“Sticking to the waters?” the brunette asks, and Ian nods. “Okay, you two hang tight and I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

“You can have _one_ beer. We’re on vacation!”

“Not worth it,” Ian says. “Just makes me sleepy now. You’ll have to carry me up to the room and then I’ll end up puking on the bed or something. My partying days are behind me.” Ian doesn’t look regretful when he says that. In fact, there’s a warm smile on his face, like he’s amused by the idea.

Lip’s not sure how he can be so casual about it. If someone told him he had to stop drinking, he’d probably lose his shit. Alcohol softens the hard edges of the world that Lip doesn’t want to see. Alcohol makes all of the dull, dreary people around him seem brighter and more interesting. Alcohol makes Lip’s rambling brain shut up and chill out, even if it’s only for a blissful few hours at a time.

“You happy, Ian?”

Ian looks confused for a moment but then nods. “Yeah, I’m happy. Why?”

Lip has developed a pretty good sense for when Ian's lying over the years. He's not lying now, but Lip still has a hard time believing him. He can’t picture being happy with a life that involves staying home sober on Saturday nights with a cranky ex-convict and the kid he had with a hooker. He can’t imagine willingly giving up the space he fought so hard for and letting someone else inside of it. “So, what’s the new place like? That’s a pretty good neighborhood. The park nearby and everything.”

“Yeah, it’s nice. I’m glad Yev will have his own room now instead of having to sleep on the couch every time he visits. You’ll see it when you help us move in,” Ian chuckles. “For free, of course. Because we definitely don’t have the money to hire movers.”

“There better at least be pizza and beer. Pretty sure that’s the law.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll feed you. Can’t wait for you to see it.”

A familiar anxiety creeps up on him. It happens every time he thinks about Ian moving out. He doesn’t want to see Ian’s new apartment. He doesn’t even want to think about it. No matter how many times he tries to remind himself that Ian’s an adult and doesn’t need his older brother looking out for him anymore, he can’t stop worrying. He can’t stop thinking about Ian dialing Mickey’s number from that cold alley and not getting a response.

He almost finishes off his next beer in one go and immediately calls out to the pretty brunette for another. Ian frowns at him but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he nudges his glass of water a little closer to Lip’s side of the table, like he’s trying to trick Lip into drinking it.

“So, you sure you don’t want to go to that club?” Lip asks, with a smirk. “Think it’s just down the street. We could walk.”

Ian shakes his head. “Honestly, I’m not sure I ever want to go to a club again. I kind of need at least a few drinks to enjoy those kind of places, and I’d end up just passing out on the bar after taking my meds. Can’t give up the meds, so it’s just not my thing anymore, I guess.”

Lip’s glad Ian can talk so candidly about his illness and his medication and everything that comes with them now. It wasn’t always that way. But the long road of denial and lying is behind them. Ian’s better for it. When things are kept hidden inside, suppressed by shame and delusion, they can start to fester. Lip thinks about the rotting secrets inside of him he doesn’t let anyone see and starts to feel sick again. “Want to call it a night then? We should get some sleep. Gotta be on our best games to mingle tomorrow.”

Ian agrees, and they take off after Lip pays the bill and leaves the giggling brunette an exorbitant tip. It’s a fairly long walk back, but it seems to go by in minutes. They talk about sports and the Alibi and the old neighborhood and everything else they used to talk about when they were kids whose biggest problems were boring classes and absent parents. They don’t talk about cold alleys or new apartments or medication or shaking hands, and, for a second, Lip can breathe.

 

* * *

 

It’s cold. So cold. His eyes are closed. Everything is dark, but he can hear his teeth chattering, and somehow he can see his breath on the air, rising toward the sky like plumes of smoke. Wherever he is smells rotten. He lifts a trembling hand and drags it through the hardening vomit across the front of his shirt. His eyes are still closed, but he knows he’s puked on himself. Knows the feel. Knows the stench.

He wants to move, but he can’t. Even opening his eyes feels like an impossible effort. His head and his limbs and his chest aches. There’s something crusting around his nostrils and mouth, probably blood. He must have fallen at some point. There are bruises and cuts littering his skin. He knows they’re there, even if he can’t see them.

He paws at his pockets for a cigarette, but there’s nothing there. No cigarettes, no wallet, no keys, no money, no phone. Nothing. Fuck, maybe he was robbed. Maybe they beat him up before they took his shit, and that’s where the patchwork of new injuries came from. Did he try to fight them? Could he really be that big of an idiot? If he’s drunk, probably.

Is he drunk? His head is swimming, but that could be from a well-placed punch or getting knocked down on to the concrete. He should stand, but his legs turn to jelly at the thought. He should cry out for help, but his throat feels dry and his lips are stuck together.

Out of nowhere, there’s a shock of warmth over his legs. He wants to curl into the mystery warmth like blanket, so he doesn’t have to listen to the godforsaken smacking of his own teeth any longer. He doesn’t realize what’s actually happened until the warmth disappears, and he’s left feeling wetter and colder than he already was. Fuck, he’s pissed himself. If he’s pissing himself then he must be wasted.

_Help._ If he thinks the word loud enough, maybe someone will hear him. They’ll probably call the cops, thinking they've found some dead bum in an alley, but at least the hospital will be warmer than wherever the fuck he is right now.

“Hey, shithead. Still sitting here, huh? Right where I left you. Pathetic.”

The voice is hoarse and menacing. Lip thinks he’s heard it before. Maybe it’s same asshole who took his shit and left him here to die covered in his own piss and blood and vomit. Maybe he’s realized all Lip had on him was a crumpled up five dollar bill and has come back to kill him for being such a poor piece of shit. _Please just leave me alone,_ he silently begs the man. _Please don’t hurt me._

“You ain’t gonna find the money you owe me back here, bitch.”

_What money? I don’t have any money._

“Gonna think twice before going back on a bet with me again?”

_What? What bet?_ Lip wants to ask him what the hell’s going on, but his jaw hurts too much to move it. There’s a bad taste in his mouth, bitter and metallic. More blood.

“Answer me, you worthless piece of shit! I know you can hear me. You’re a dumb fuck, but you ain’t deaf.” A hard kick connects with his ribs, and Lip screams out. The pain pulses through him so violently, he feels himself start to heave. He’s not sure what’s worse, the stinging in his ribs or the sound of his probably already broken jaw fracturing back open. If there were anything left inside of him, he probably would have puked again.

“Huh? You got nothin’ to say? Come on, Frank. Use your words like a big boy.”

_Frank?_ Before he can consider why this guy’s calling him Frank, a fist collides with his face and sends the back of his head crashing into the brick wall behind him. He hears the sickening _crack_ of his skull and then everything goes black. If not for the low, maddening ringing in his ears, he’d assume he was dead.

“Yeah, it’s going really well, Mick.” There’s another voice. It’s far away, but at least it’s not the man from the alley. “I’m having a lot of fun. It’s gorgeous out here. How’s everything at home?” Ian. That’s Ian’s voice. “Good. You taking your meds on time? Oh shit, it feels kind of good to be the one asking that question for once.”

It’s not easy, but Lip eventually manages to force his eyes open. He’s thankful when he sees the ceiling of the hotel room above him instead of a cold night’s sky. There’s not much light in the room, so it must still be early. When he shifts to reach out for his cellphone on the nightstand, he realizes he’s soaked. For a terrifying, humiliating moment, he thinks he’s actually pissed himself like he did in that fucked up nightmare. It wouldn’t be the first time, but he’s not sure how he would manage to hide this from Ian. Luckily, a quick inspection confirms it’s just sweat. Sweat that has somehow drenched through his clothes and sheets.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself, as he strips his shirt off over his head. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, Mick, I’m sleeping plenty. The room’s really nice.” Lip swings his feet over the side of the bed and does his best not to eavesdrop on his brother’s conversation. “I am! Oh my god, I’m feeling fine. Can you please stop worrying?”

Lip glances around and spots Ian standing on the balcony with his cellphone pressed to his ear. He’s trying to whisper, probably not wanting to wake him, but Lip can hear every word. He’s teasing Mickey about being a nag, but there’s a blinding grin on his face. He likes it. He likes Mickey checking up on him, and Lip thinks that’s got to be some kind of miracle.

“Yeah, we’re going to the beach after this brunch thing Lip got us roped in to. We’re meeting some professors. I mean, at least one of them’s a professor, I think. Not sure about the dude, but he probably does something smart.” A pause. “I don’t know, scientist stuff. It’s going to be boring as fuck, but it’s good for his career, so I’ll deal.”

Lip stumbles out of bed, promptly tripping over his own feet and nearly crashing into the television. He catches himself on the edge of the stand and sends the remote flying to the ground, but Ian doesn’t notice the movement. Lip still waits until his brother turns around to look out over the city to pull open the mini-fridge and grab one of the small bottles of vodka anyways. His hand is shaking a bit again, though not as bad as yesterday. He tries to ignore it and get lost in the burn of the liquor instead. He tries not to think about what it means.

“Oh, come on, I’ve only been gone a few days. You’re turning into a sap.” Ian giggles like a girl, all squeaky and flirtatious and fucking irritating. “Okay, fine, I miss you too, loser.”

Lip tosses the empty bottle into the trash and then grabs another. It’s just to calm himself down, so he can be his best at this breakfast. It’s just so he can relax and smile and turn on the charisma without having to fake it. He should probably find some orange juice to pour it into or something, so he can keep up the illusion he’s just a normal adult who likes to get a little buzzed before 8am. But that seems like a lot of effort.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you, too. You better be taking care of yourself.”

Lip twists open the cap and lets it fall to the floor.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast takes longer than Lip would’ve liked, but the food is good and he manages not to fuck up his life by fucking anyone. It’s almost midday when they finally get to the beach. It’s a little more crowded now than they planned on, but Ian is grinning like an idiot all the same. The early afternoon sun is beating down on them, and the sand is hot under their feet. “Fuck, I think I’m more of a winter person,” Lip says, wiping a layer of sweat from his upper lip. “Give me a ski lodge, some snow, and a cup of hot chocolate over this shit any day.”

“Oh, come on, this is awesome.”

“This is hell.”

Ian laughs and shakes his head. “Whatever. I just sat through a two-hour long breakfast where I had no idea what the fuck anyone was talking about, so you can deal with some fucking sunshine.” 

“That guy couldn’t take his eyes off you though, huh?” Lip teases. “ _Oh, Ian, you work at a café? That’s just so very fascinating. Please tell me everything you know about coffee. And maybe suck my dick while you’re at it_ ,” Lip says, in a poor imitation of Alice’s husband. “Figured they might be into some kinky shit, but he looked like he wanted to eat you.”

Ian groans. “He kept rubbing my thigh under the table, even though I kept pushing his hand away. Like, pretty forcefully.”

“Holy shit, really? Why didn’t you say anything?" 

“Dunno, didn’t want to start shit. It looked like you were having a good time. ‘Sides, it’s hardly the first time some weird married dude has hit on me. I’m kind of an expert at politely fending them off.”

“Sure you don’t wanna get one last bang in before you’re a married man yourself? That guy wasn’t half bad looking. Kind of looked like Jimmy’s dad, actually.”

Ian snorts and nearly knocks Lip into a group of middle-aged women reading books under their umbrellas with a hard shove. “Nope. I’m good.”

“Your loss, man.”

They both stop when they finally reach the edge of the ocean. Ian inches forward, so the water washes over his ankles as the waves roll in. He’s standing very still. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s awe in his eyes. It reminds Lip of the time he and Ian ditched elementary school to go to the movies instead. Ian was nervous about the whole thing, but Lip managed to successfully sneak them into a showing. One of the _Lord of the Rings_ movies was playing, maybe the last one. Neither of them had seen the other two, but it didn’t really matter. They weren’t paying much attention to the story, too distracted by their own rebellion and the images projected on the giant screen in front of them. The movie would probably seem stupid to them now, but back then, there was something so grandiose and new about it. That same look of awe had been on Ian’s face, and Lip had been so proud of himself for making that happen.

_Hold him tight, don’t let him go._ Fiona’s words play through his mind again. There was only so much she could handle by herself when they were younger, so Lip had taken it upon himself to watch out for Ian, to make sure he stayed out of trouble, to make sure he was okay. But they’re not kids sneaking out of school anymore, and Lip knows it’s time for him to finally let go.

“Hey, you alright?”

Lip’s eyes follow Ian’s down to his hands. They’re shaking again, just slightly. Lip squeezes them into fists to make them stop. “Yeah, man, just had too much coffee, I think.”

“You sure?”

Lip nods and tries not to think about when he can gets his hands on his next drink. He doesn’t want to fall into the trap of waiting for that moment instead of living in this one. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m also sure you’re gonna burn if you don’t put some more sunscreen on.”

Ian frowns and cranes his neck to look at one of his bare, freckled shoulders. “I already put on a buttload of sunscreen. I’ll be fine.”

“Whatever, don’t blame me when you look like a tomato at your wedding.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Let me worry about that.”

Lip wades out further into the ocean until they’re side by side. They stand in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Lip puts one of his hands on Ian’s shoulder and says, “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Oh, fuck off with that,” Ian laughs, shrugging his hand off. “And _you_ call _me_ the drama queen. I’m gonna be ten minutes away from you. That’s not far enough away for you to miss me. That’s not far enough away for you to miss anyone.”

“It won’t be the same, and you know it.”

Ian huffs but doesn’t try to argue with him. “I’ll miss you, too. As much as I can miss someone who lives _ten minutes_ away from me,” he says, with a quiet laugh. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you, you know. I wouldn’t—”

“You would’ve figured it out eventually,” Lip interjects, knowing exactly what Ian’s getting at. “I didn’t save you. I didn’t do shit. That was all you.”

“But it wasn’t. It was you, too,” Ian insists. “Just—just thanks for not giving up on me. I know it wasn’t easy. That _I_ wasn’t easy.”

_Hold him tight, don’t let him go._ “Giving up on you was never an option, Ian.” Lip swallows and clears his throat, as he tries to blink away the drops of moisture now clinging to his eyelashes. He can feel Ian’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t turn to meet them. He has a gut feeling he knows what his brother is going to say next, and he’s not sure he’s ready to hear it.

“If you—you know if you ever need my help, with anything, I’ll be there, right? Anything you need, I’m there. You’re my best friend.”

Lip blinks and sees images of himself waking up on the floor, a pillow under his head and a blanket draped over him that he sure as hell didn’t get himself. He sees a glass of water and two Advil waiting for him on the kitchen counter. He sees the worried looks Ian and Debbie keep shooting him whenever he jokes about his drunken exploits. The memories all make him feel far too much like his father for his comfort, so he tries to block them out. Tries to drink more, so he forgets. It never works, because of course it doesn’t. There isn’t a drink strong enough to make any of that go away.

“Do you need help, Lip?”

The questions hangs there, unanswered. A minute passes by. Then maybe another, Lip can’t be sure. He wants to say yes. The answer is _yes_. Part of him is ready to admit that, at least to himself, even if he can’t say it out loud yet.

“Do you want to just stand here all day or actually go in?”

“What?”

“The ocean, man,” Lip says, motioning out toward the horizon. Frustration and possibly disappointment flash across Ian’s face. It makes him nervous Ian’s going to push the issue, so he swiftly adds, “Or should we wait an hour ‘cos we just ate?”

“Excuse me?” Ian laughs. “When have we ever listened to that stupid, made-up rule? Fiona just used to tell us that so she could have the pool to herself with whatever guy she was dating at the time. And, seriously, when have we ever listened to _any_ rule?”

“I don’t know, you keep talking about what a boring, dried up old man you are now, so I thought maybe you’d—”

“Fuck you,” Ian interrupts, reaching down to cup some water in his hands and splash it up at Lip.

When Lip bends down to retaliate, Ian spins around and starts sprinting out into the water. “Hey, don’t run away from me, you bastard!” Lip calls out, laughing and running after his brother, further out into the waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is up later than usual! I've had a busy couple of weeks, but the next one (an Ian chapter) should be up on Sunday.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	19. For Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For better, for worse,” Ian repeats back, brushing his thumb over the letters on Mickey’s knuckles. They’ve had worse, and now it’s their turn for better. Ian’s sure of it.

Ian fears the amount of time he’s spent standing in front of a mirror today is approaching extreme levels of narcissism, but it’s strange seeing himself in a tux. He’s never had an occasion to wear one until now—no proms, no fancy weddings, no black tie events. It’s sleek and black and fits him surprisingly well for a rental. He likes the bow tie as well, even though he’s almost certain Mickey’s going to tease him for choosing it over a normal tie. He would be pretty pleased with the look overall if not for the few impossibly stubborn strands of hair that keep breaking free from their buddies and falling across his forehead.

He brushes them back for the hundredth time, hoping they’ll finally remain neatly slicked back with the rest of his hair. Of course, it only takes them a couple seconds to spring back out again. Ian huffs but doesn’t trying to fix it. “Whatever,” he mutters to himself. “What-fucking-ever.”

“You look good.”

Carl appears behind him in the mirror, wearing a pair of fitted dark jeans and a ridiculous tuxedo print t-shirt that makes Ian snort. “What the hell do you have on? Fiona’s going to kill you for wearing that, you know.”

“Why? No offense, but this thing’s at the fucking _Alibi_. Why should I have to get dressed up to go there of all places?”

“Because it’s your brother’s wedding, asshole.”

“Well, it’s also Mickey’s wedding, and seeing as he’s the one who gave me this shirt—" 

Ian scoffs. “Of course he did. He probably wishes he could wear it himself.”

Carl leans against Fiona’s dresser with a smirk on his face and crosses his arms. “So, you ready to go yet? I wanna get to the food and booze part.”

Ian starts to laugh but grows serious when he notices a crescent-shaped bruise underneath Carl’s right eye. It’s dark and purple and makes Ian’s stomach sink. “Who the fuck did that to you?” he asks through clenched teeth. “And why’re you always so beat up?” This isn’t the first bruise Carl has come home sporting. Ian’s seen them on his arms and his ribs and even his neck a couple times. “You in trouble?”

Carl’s jaw works back and forth. “Nah, not in trouble.”

“You sure about that?” Ian raises his eyebrows skeptically. “‘Cos you sure look like you’re in trouble. What’s going on?”

“It’s your fuckin’ wedding day, can we just—?”

“I don’t care what day it is,” Ian interjects. “Who gave you that? If you’re in trouble with your boss, or whatever you call him, you should get out. I get that’s dangerous in itself, but maybe you could stay with Mandy in Florida for a while? You could—”

“Relax, Ian. I don’t need to get out,” Carl says, scuffing his shoe against the floor. “I already got out. ‘While ago.”

“Wait, what? You’re not—you’re really out?”

“The fuck you think I’ve been workin’ as a janitor for? You think cleaning dried vomit off toilets is fun for me or something?”

“I don’t know. Thought you needed it for your parole.”

Carl rolls his eyes. “I could’ve found a way ‘round that if I wanted to, but I wanted to—I don’t know, I just couldn’t do that shit anymore. Couldn’t keep watching people get dropped. I kept having, like, I guess you’d call them panic attacks. I had to give ‘em most of the money I had stored up to get out, but they’re still messing with me. Calling me a bitch and shit. They’ll get bored eventually and move on to some other poor asshole. Think they’re just keeping an eye on me ‘til they’re convinced I ain’t going to the competition. These ratty ass shoes I’m wearing should be proof enough I ain’t runnin’ drugs anymore, but oh well. What’re you gonna do.”

“Jesus Christ, Carl.” Ian runs a hand over his face. He feels like an idiot. A completely oblivious idiot. How could he not have known about any of this? He knows he hasn’t spent a lot of time at the Gallagher house lately, especially not since he moved in with Mickey, but he can’t believe his little brother had so radically changed his life without telling him. “Why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve helped you. Or Mickey. He would’ve helped. Does Fiona know?”

Carl sucks in a loud breath and then exhales it through his nose. “Wasn’t sure they’d actually let me out at first,” he says, voice hovering just above a whisper. “I didn’t want to make it a thing in case it all went to shit. And I wasn’t gonna ask Mickey for help. My dumb ass ain’t worth risking his parole.” He pauses and then adds, more firmly, “I can handle myself on my own, you know. Don’t need you or Fiona or Lip holding my fuckin’ hand all the time. Don’t need anyone else fixin’ my life for me.”

It’s not funny. In fact, none of this is funny, but Carl’s assertion still nearly makes Ian laugh. _Don’t need anyone else fixin’ my life for me._ The sentiment is so brutally familiar it’s almost comical. Ian knows he has said the same thing plenty of times since the diagnosis, even if he didn’t use the exact words. It should be easy to accept help when everything is falling apart, but it never was for him. Or for Carl either, apparently. He’s never felt like he’s had all that much in common with Carl, but maybe they’re more alike than he realizes.

They stand there for a while without speaking. Ian can tell Carl’s waiting for him to talk first, probably expecting a scolding of some sort. Ian’s not sure what to say. He wants to tell Carl that he gets it, but he doesn’t, not really. Breaking the law definitely isn't a foreign concept to him, but he never got caught up in the same life Carl and Mickey did. He decides to focus on the part he does understand.

“Panic attacks, huh?”

Carl’s mouth opens and then presses closed again, settling into a hard line. He remains silent and stares intently down at his shoes.

“What do you do when it happens?”

“Some breathing thing I learned in prison,” Carl says, awkwardly jerking up his shoulders in what is probably an attempt to appear nonchalant.

“Yeah. Breathing’s important. I have to—I do this thing where I tell myself I’m not dying, over and over again, until I finally start believing myself. Sometimes that works.” Carl’s eyes widen, and Ian continues, “They happen sometimes when I—I don’t always want to take my meds. I wake up and I stare at them and fuck, I hate it. I hate that they exist. I don’t know what part actually makes me panic though, knowing I _have_ to take them or worrying I _won’t_ anyways. And then sometimes I remember Lip’s voice on the—” Ian stops and lets that thought trail off unspoken. That’s not a memory he wants to bring up today. “It sucks.”

“Yeah,” Carl agrees. “It sucks.” He plays with the hem of his t-shirt for a moment and then looks up at Ian. “Probably shouldn’t be that surprised we all ended up crazy, huh?”

“What’s the thing Lip always says? It’s in the genes,” Ian drawls, and Carl laughs.

“Yeah, the fuckin’ Gallagher curse.”

“What’s so funny?” They both look over at Lip, who’s now standing in the doorway, swaying a little on his feet. The shakiness probably wouldn’t be obvious to most people, but Ian’s become a bit of an expert in when Lip’s been drinking over the years.

“You drunk already?” Carl asks. “Party hasn’t even started yet.” Looks like Ian’s not the only one who’s developed an eye for it then.

“Drunk? Nah, don’t think so. Not yet. I just did some light pre-celebrating in honor of our favorite brother and his impending nuptials.” Lip grins like he’s expecting them to laugh. When they don’t, he just shrugs and nods toward the hallway. “We’ve gotta get going unless you want Mickey freaking out ‘bout having a runaway bride situation on his hands. We’re already fifteen minutes late. Fiona’s left me ten messages and counting. So I’ll be out in the car, ‘kay?" 

When Lip walks away, he doesn’t trip or fall or even stumble, but there’s something distinctly unsteady about him that makes Ian nervous.

“What’re we supposed to do about that?” Carl asks, as soon as Lip’s out of earshot.

“I don’t know. Talk to him?”

“You think he’s gonna listen?”

“I don’t know,” Ian says again. He had tried to bring it up at the beach in California, but Lip managed to distract him. For someone who loves attention, Lip’s always been skilled at deflecting it away from himself when he wants to.

Carl glances over at him and then back at the door. “We’ll figure it out. I mean, not today. Today you gotta get married and shit. Still, you should drive.”

Ian gnaws on the inside of his lip and tries not to think about the glassy, unfocused look in his older brother’s eyes. Maybe today isn’t the day they finally suck it up and do something about it, but Ian knows it’s coming soon. They won’t be able to ignore it much longer.

“Hey, Ian?” Carl waves a hand in front of his face. “You ready?”

Ian blinks once, twice. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a creased, handmade banner draped over the door of the Alibi when they arrive. It just reads _HAPPY_ _WEDDING_ in large, messy letters with glitter and shiny stickers around the edges. It’s absurd and looks like one strong breeze will tear it down, but it makes Ian smile.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Fiona appears, seemingly out of thin air, and practically tackles him. “Debbie and I have been freaking out over here! And none of you assholes are answering your phones. The cake guy was late. The flower guy was late. I had to threaten to murder that incompetent douchebag’s entire family to get him over here, and for what? Just for you to be late, too!”

“I’m sorry, Fi, I—”

Ian starts to apologize, but Fiona’s not listening to him. She’s too busy pinning a small red rose to his tux and muttering angrily under her breath. “Even Mickey was on time,” she’s complaining. “Right on time, yet my little brother can’t be bothered to—” She backs up to check her handiwork and abruptly falls silent. Her eyes travel over him, from the scuffed dress shoes he’s wearing to the black, somewhat sloppily tied bow tie. “Jesus.” She lets out a shaky breath and then, to Ian’s shock, her face crumples and she starts crying. 

“Hey,” he says softly, placing his hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong? Do I look that bad?”

“Nothing’s wrong, you jerk!” she cries, though the tears streaming down her face make that kind of hard to believe. She smacks his chest with the back of her hand and then cups his cheeks. “You just—you look so fuckin’ handsome!” And then she’s beaming at him, and Ian’s beaming right back at her.

“You’re gonna ruin your makeup, you know,” Lip points out.

“Oh, shit, _shit_.” Fiona jolts out of Ian’s arms and starts carefully brushing away the moisture under her eyes. “Goddamnit, why’d you have to go and make me cry?”

“It’s not my fault I look so good in a tux.” Fiona holds up her middle finger, and he’s about to tease her further when he’s distracted by a voice he knows well.

“Back the fuck off, Mandy. I can smoke a cigarette if I wanna smoke a fuckin’ cigarette. If I smell like smoke that fucker can deal with it. I’m not the one who’s late, am I?”

Mickey exits the bar and immediately locks eyes with Ian. “That fucker, huh? That how you talk about your husband?”

A smile spreads across Mickey’s lips, as he flips open his liter and leans against the wall. “When he’s twenty minutes late, sure.”

Ian allows himself a moment to take in the sight of Mickey in a tux. _Damn,_ is the first, stunningly articulate thought that enters his mind. He looks good. Really good. Ian’s mouth feels a little dry, as he observes the way the black slacks he’s wearing are just a hint too tight on his stocky legs. He might be imagining running his hands up along those pants and squeezing Mickey’s perfectly round ass when Mandy steps in front of him, hands on her hips.

“Oh god, gross, stop that,” she chides. “You look like you’re about to devour him.”

“Back off, bitch,” Mickey mumbles around his cigarette. That’s when Ian notices Mickey’s looking at him the same way, his blue eyes moving slowly and sensually up from Ian’s toes until their eyes meet again.

Mandy shoots her brother a dirty look over her shoulder and then focuses on Ian again. “You two shouldn’t be seeing each other, you know. It’s bad luck.”

Ian walks around Mandy and stops in front of Mickey. He slides his hand to the back of Mickey’s neck, scratching his nails through the short hair there, and then leans forward to kiss him. The smoke doesn’t bother him. He likes the way Mickey tastes—the smoke mixed with bitter coffee and mint toothpaste. He hated when his other boyfriends smoked, and he wonders if that’s because it was too familiar, if it inevitably reminded him of this man. The man the rest of them could never compare to.

“We’ll risk it,” Mickey directs to Mandy when Ian pulls away. A hand pushes under Ian’s jacket and tightly grasps his hip. “You look hot, Gallagher.”

Ian lets Mickey draw him closer. “You look better,” he breathes over Mickey’s ear. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

“You’re already married to me, loser,” Mickey whispers back, so only Ian can hear him.

“I might just marry you every day, Mickey Milkovich." 

A light blush heats up Mickey’s cheeks and tips of his ears. He bites the corner of his lip. “I don’t know about that. But if marry is code for fuck, I could probably get on board.”

Ian chuckles and presses another quick kiss to his lips. “Was planning on doing that anyways,” he says. “You wanna go in first? Get this started?”

“What, and have you steal my dramatic fuckin’ entrance after you show up twenty fuckin’ minutes late? No fuckin’ way. You’re going in first.”

“Yeah, okay, princess,” Ian laughs, “You just want an excuse to finish your cigarette.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Mickey admits, as Mandy grabs Ian’s arm and pulls him over to her.

“Okay,” she says, alternating her death glare back and forth between them. “You guys can eye fuck all you want later, but we need to get this show on the road before everyone in there’s too drunk to concentrate and starts going after the cake.”

“Just let me—” Ian wants to kiss Mickey one more time. Or maybe he just wants to look at him again before this all starts, so he can ease the butterflies starting to flutter in his gut, but Mandy manhandles him over to the door with impressive force and then roughly pushes him inside.

There are more people than Ian had anticipated. In addition to family, a few of his and Mickey’s coworkers have shown up along with almost all of the Alibi regulars. Even Frank is there, taking an afternoon nap on the bar top.

“You look sexy, Mands,” he hears Lip say from somewhere behind him. “That is one hell of a dress you got on.”

“Jesus, are you already wasted?” Mandy shoots back. “It’s not even five yet!”

“My _alleged_ drunkenness has nothing to do with you lookin’ hot.” Lip hiccups. “And, as they say, it’s five o’clock somewhere." 

“Yeah, okay, Casanova, just behave yourself in front of my boyfriend, alright?” He can tell by Mandy’s voice that she’s more amused than annoyed by Lip, at least for now, so Ian opts not to turn around and smack him upside the head.

“Ian!” Before he can figure out where the greeting is coming from, Ian feels two arms wrap around his waist from the side and hug him tightly. “You’re here! Uncle Frank kept saying you weren’t gonna show. Said you probably ran off to Mexico.”

Ian barely resists rolling his eyes. It only took Frank meeting Yevgeny once, by accident, for the asshole to convince Yev to start calling him _Uncle Frank._ It drives Mickey crazy. Ian bends at his knees, so he’s closer to eye-level with his stepson. The boy is smiling brightly and wearing a suit that’s at least two sizes too big on him. There’s a smudge of chocolate on his cheek that Ian brushes away his thumb. “Did you already get at the cake? Bet Uncle Frank helped you pull that off.”

“I um—I, well—I just—” Yevgeny looks stricken.

“It’s okay,” Ian assures him, winking. “I won’t tell.”

Yevgeny releases a long breath and smiles even though he still looks sheepish. “It was only a little bit of frosting, I promise,” he says, holding his thumb and pointer finger up parallel to each other to demonstrate. “I was hungry and it’s hot in here and this tie feels like it’s choking me.”

“Well, that’s no good. Let me fix that for you.” Ian reaches out for the light blue tie and loosens it for him. “Better?”

“My mom says it looks bad like this.”

“Well, what your mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” That’s probably not the most _parental_ thing Ian’s ever said, but Yevgeny’s grinning again, and that’s all he really wants. It’s a beautiful smile, one that makes him feel like someone’s grabbed his heart and is squeezing it just a little too tight. The stupid butterflies in his stomach start to calm down. This is the right thing—him and Mickey and their son. This has always been right. “Are you excited?”

Yevgeny nods unreservedly. “I’ve never been to a wedding! Well, I was at my mom’s actually, but I barely remember it, so it doesn’t really count. Are you nervous? Mom thought you might be nervous, and that’s why you’re late. She said Uncle Frank’s an idiot though.”

“Uncle Frank _is_ an idiot,” Ian confirms. “But I’m not nervous at all.” He isn’t now, not anymore. “Just ready to marry your dad, kiddo.” He kisses the top of Yevgeny’s head and then ruffles his hair. Svetlana will probably kill him for messing it up if she finds out, but maybe she’ll cut him a break on his wedding day. “Wish me luck, okay?”

“Good luck, Ian!”

 

* * *

 

It’s an incredibly awkward thing to have so many people staring at him all at once. Ian has no idea how people can invite hundreds of guests to their weddings and not lose it with all of those eyes on them. He takes a deep breath to try to relax, but it sounds too loud to his ears. No one else is making a sound. Ian’s sure the Alibi has never been as quiet as it is after Kev claps his hands together to start the ceremony.

Debbie told him he wouldn’t notice everyone else once he was up there, that everything except him and Mickey would just melt away. It’s a romantic thought, but it’s not reality. He’s acutely aware of everyone else in the room—of Fiona, who has already started crying again, of Yevgeny, who’s bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet and tugging at Svetlana’s skirt, of Lip standing next to him and Mandy making funny faces at him over Mickey’s shoulder. He’s glad he and Mickey decided not to say their own vows, because he’s pretty sure he would’ve freaked out and fucked them up.

“We’ve all gathered here today, in the best and shittiest bar in the entire South Side, to watch these two fuckers finally get married.” The opening of Kev’s speech is met with a few laughs and Yevgeny whispering something about the swear jar to his mother. “There are a lot of you here. Probably more than either of these two expected. That’s because what we’ve got on our hands, ladies and gentleman, is a love story. Might not look like one at first, but that’s what it is. This is some _Romeo and Juliet_ , _The Notebook_ type shit you’re all witnessing.”

Mickey huffs and then asks, “Really, man? _The Notebook_?”

“Yeah, Mickey’s more of a _Love Actually_ guy, Kev.”

“The fuck, Gallagher? _You’re_ the one who wanted to watch that.”

“Fine, some _Romeo and Juliet_ , _Love Actually_ type shit,” Kev amends, as Mickey mouths a very recognizable _fuck you_ to Ian. “Mickey Milkovich and Ian Gallagher are the toughest bastards in this city, and they’re at their best with each other. I’ll never forget them totally fuckin’ up my bar when this one,” Kev gestures to Mickey, “Decided to publicly come out to Terry fuckin’ Milkovich and declare his undying love for a certain ginger—”

“I did not—” Mickey starts to interrupt, but Kev talks right over him. 

“Everyone in this neighborhood was afraid of Terry Milkovich, and for good reason. He’s a scary dude. Really scary, actually.” Kev shudders and shakes his head. “But they took him and all of his homophobic buddies on that night and came out still standing. They were fearless back then, and they’re still the bravest guys I know.”

Tears start prickling at Ian’s eyes. That day is still so vivid in his mind. He remembers looking at Mickey, bruised and bloody and _free_ , and feeling overwhelmed with how much he loved the man in front of him. He didn’t know what he should say, because there were no words to describe just how much he felt that night. No one else has ever made him feel like that. Their love had always been powerful, even when one or both them was pretending it wasn’t. It always walked the line between wonderful and dangerous, threatening to be too much, threatening to destroy them even as it saved them. But it feels calmer now and stronger at the same time. It’s no longer a pulsing, all-consuming need but a constant, pleasant ache instead. He wants to touch Mickey. He always wants to touch him, so he reaches out and circles one of Mickey’s hands with in his own.

“Nothing’s been easy for them. They’ve had to fight to be together every step of the way, but they’ve come out stronger for it. And if I was bettin’ on it, I’d bet they’ll just get stronger. Nothing’s knocking these two down. They got this.” 

Mickey squeezes Ian’s hand, and Ian squeezes back.

Kev goes on to stumble over the traditional vows, forgetting a few of them and having to start over a couple times, but they get through them eventually. It’s the second time in two months they’ve recited them. They’re just generic words a million other people before them have said, but Ian likes saying them anyways, likes promising himself to Mickey. “For better, for worse,” Ian repeats back, brushing his thumb over the letters on Mickey’s knuckles. They’ve had _worse_ , and now it’s their turn for _better_. Ian’s sure of it.

It’s not until the kiss that everyone else finally disappears, just like Debbie said they would. When their lips meet and Mickey makes a soft, eager noise in response, they’re the only two people in the entire fucking world as far as Ian’s concerned.

“I love you so much,” Ian says when they finally break apart.

People are cheering and clapping and calling out for champagne, but Ian can still hear Mickey sigh the words back to him.

“To the happy couple!” Ian looks up, as Kev lifts a champagne bottle over his head. Ian’s in too much of a daze at first to notice that Kev’s attempting to open the thing. When he does realize, Ian opens his mouth to warn that Kev might want to face away from the crowd of defenseless people, but the cork is flying right past Mickey’s head before he can get the words out.

An inch to the left, and Mickey would probably be down an eye. Everyone falls silent again, watching as his husband’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and Kev stares back at him in horror. “I am so, so sorry, man. I—”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, just give me that,” Mickey demands, as he rips the bottle from Kev’s hands. Then tension breaks when Mickey takes a long swig straight from the bottle and Fiona yells out to the turn the music up.

 

* * *

 

The song playing is slow and kind of dirty, if Ian’s hearing the lyrics correctly. It’s not unexpected, considering he let Fiona pick the playlist, but he hopes Yevgeny’s still too young to understand what the singer is suggesting they all do to each other.

“I look like an idiot."

Ian laughs into Mickey’s hair and hugs his arms tighter around his waist. “Come on, Mick. We’re _barely_ dancing.”

“I don’t dance, man. Not like you,” Mickey grumbles, though he’s still got his arms wrapped around Ian’s shoulders. “I feel stupid.”

“You’re doing great,” Ian says. “Maybe I’ll just have to get you drunker. Then you won’t mind dancing with me.”

“Nah, not getting drunk.” Ian pulls back and is surprised by the wicked smile on Mickey’s face. “Need to be at my best for tonight.”

Ian cocks an eyebrow at him. “Is that right? What for?”

“Shut up, you know what for. Plus, the last time we had post-wedding sex, I still had a giant bullet wound on my ass, so this time, you know.” Mickey then subtly grinds his hips up against Ian’s.

“Oh god, don’t do that,” Ian gasps out. There’s a pleasant tugging low in his gut but getting an erection in front of all of his friends and family isn’t the most appealing idea. He starts thinking about the time Grammy Gallagher walked around the house almost naked, breasts swinging free and low, as she complained about the heat and Frank being a piece of shit. It’s probably an affront to her memory to use it for this purpose, but it typically does the trick. “Keep it in your pants, Milkovich.”

“Hey, everyone!” Ian vaguely recognizes Mandy’s voice calling out over the crowd. “Hey, losers! _Ugh_. Where’s the fucking plug?” The music cuts out a minute later, and the abrupt silence is met with a chorus of jeers and boos.

“Oh, shut up!” Lip shouts, throwing up his arms. “The best men are trying to make a heartfelt toast here. So if you all could shut your mouths and pay attention, that’d be swell."

The two of them are sitting on top of the bar. V doesn’t look too happy about it, but she doesn’t move to shoo them off. Ian’s eyes flicker between them, trying to discern which one is more intoxicated. They’re both red-faced and shiny with sweat and leaning on each other like if one of them were to move the other would collapse.

“Idiots,” Mickey mumbles. “Can we stop them? We should stop them, right?”

“You _really_ don’t want to know what my wasted brother and your wasted sister have to say? They just claimed it’s gonna be _heartfelt_.”

Mickey seems to the consider that, furrowing his brow, and then sighs. “Alright, yeah, you’re right. Let the shit show commence, I guess.”

Mandy holds up her glass of red wine. Lip quickly moves to copy her, throwing up his full glass of beer and causing about a third of it to slosh over the side on to the floor. Mandy snorts at that and pokes Lip in the ribs, which only results in more precious beer spilling. They look ridiculous, but it’s nice to see them getting along. Ian thinks the four of them could have been great friends if they ever could’ve gotten their shit together at the same time.

“So, where to start?” Mandy muses, tilting her head to the side and looking straight at Ian. “How about at the beginning? Not too long after I almost got Ian Gallagher killed but decided to be his fake girlfriend instead, he starts telling me about this guy. He would never tell me _the guy’s_ name, so I just started referring to him as Mystery Boyfriend in my head. I had to call him something with the amount of time Ian spent rambling on about him. How do I know if he likes me? How do I get him to kiss me? How do I convince him blowjobs aren’t _that_ gay?”

Laughter erupts through the party, as Ian and Mickey flip Mandy off in near perfect unison. “Children are here!” Svetlana reminds her, holding her hands over a clearly confused Yevgeny’s ears. “Watch your mouth.”

“Yeah, you might wanna keep your hands there for the duration,” Lip suggests, with a smirk.

“So, anyways, I didn’t think Mystery Boyfriend would last very long. He sounded like a total dickhead.” Mickey huffs in protest. “Though I have to admit, the way Ian talked about him, I was thinking Mystery Boyfriend sounded kinda hot. You all should’ve heard the way he would wax poetic about his flawless ass and—”

Mickey groans loudly, “Seriously, Mandy?”

“I spent a lot of time imagining what this legendary ass might look like, so you can imagine my horror when I learned I was trying to picture my _brother’s_ ass.”

“I hate her,” Mickey announces. “I’m disowning her.”

A warm smile comes to Mandy’s face. “I knew Ian was in love Mickey long before I even knew Mickey was Mickey,” she says. “But I didn’t know Mickey loved him back until much later. He isn’t one to use his words, my brother. But you don’t always need words to show people what you’re feeling. It’s when Ian—when Ian hit a rough patch that I finally knew. I could finally see it then—that my brother was hopelessly, madly, ridiculously in love with my first boyfriend.”

“They had a dramatic start,” Lip pipes in. “And middle, for that matter. Basically, all of it was dramatic. But I didn’t know right away that Ian had gotten himself a new guy. I thought there might be something going on, but Ian’s real good at keeping his secrets close. Until he isn’t, that is. I remember it like it was yesterday—my scrawny, goofy, freckled little brother blurting out that his old, creepy boyfriend had shot his new, grumpy boyfriend and—”

“Children!” Svetlana exclaims again, with an even more fearsome expression. “That is _not_ story for children.”

“Right, sorry, kid,” Lip says. “ _Anyways_ , all I want to say is that Ian and Mickey have been through a lot of shit. Gunshots and bar fights and what have you. A lot of shit neither of them deserved. It’s not easy growing up around here. We all know that. But the amount of shit heaped on—”

“Swear one more time, boy,” Svetlana warns. "I dare you." Lip quickly clamps his mouth shut.

“Okay, okay, keepin’ it PG from here on out,” Lip promises, holding up his hands. “They’ve had to overcome a lot of not-so-great _stuff_ to get here. They fought and then they fought some more, and they didn’t give up. Because you don’t give up on the people you love." 

For the second time that night, Ian feels tears start pooling in his eyes, and he can’t believe Lip, of all people, is the one to provoke them. He’s still not sure Lip approves of the marriage, but this proves to Ian he at least understands it.

“My dear friend—” Lip continues, draping his arm around Mandy’s shoulders, “and I have a wish for the newlyweds.” Lip lifts his glass again, careful not spill any more of it. “May your fighting be over, and may you find the peace and contentment you deserve.” 

“And may you know that we’ve all got your backs,” Mandy adds. “If you ever need someone’s ass kicked, you know who to call.”

Lip nods in agreement. “The Gallaghers, and the honorary Gallaghers—” he says, smiling at Mandy, “—might be a bunch of fuck-ups, but we take care of each other. So take care of each other, alright? To Ian and Mickey!” Everyone lifts their glasses along with Mandy and Lip.

“Butt buddies for life!” Frank yells out from one of the booths in the back.

“Of course,” Ian mutters.

The clinking of glasses dies down after a few minutes and is replaced by V dinging a knife against her own glass of champagne. “Kiss!” she commands. “You gotta kiss! It’s tradition.”

Mickey scowls but doesn’t stop Ian when he cradles the back of his head and places a soft kiss to his lips. “You guys better not do that all night,” Mickey cautions afterwards. “I’m serious.”

As if on cue, Yevgeny starts doing the same to his glass of soda and cheering, “Kiss!” again. 

“You’re a real smartass, you know that, kid.”

“Like father, like son,” Ian laughs, pressing a quick peck to Mickey’s cheek. Yevgeny claps his hands together, visibly pleased with himself, and then bounds off toward the buffet. “Hey, I’ll be right back, okay? You gonna be alright without me?” 

“Fuck off, Gallagher.”

Ian snorts and kisses him once more for good measure.

 

* * *

 

When he makes his way to the bar, Lip and Mandy are leaning against it rather than on each other. They’re laughing raucously about something, bent over at their waists and trying to catch their breaths. “You two are having a good time, huh?”

“Ian!” Mandy squeaks, throwing her arms around his neck. “Did you like our speech? You loved it, right? It was pretty awesome.”

“Yeah, it was pretty awesome,” Ian confirms. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” She hops up on to her toes and kisses Ian on the cheek. “You owe me a dance, okay? But first I need to find Jason and my child. I’m afraid these people are gonna scare the shit out of him. He might need a pep talk.”

“Go find your boyfriend.” When Mandy walks away, Ian rests his back against the bar next to Lip. “So, that speech.”

Lip raises one eyebrow. “Yeah, what about it?”

“It was nice. Like, really nice.”

“You tryin’ to say I’m not nice?”

“Not usually.”

Lip chuckles and finishes off the remainder of his beer. “Don’t be so shocked, asshole. I’ve told you a hundred times I’m happy for you. Not my fault you don’t believe me.”

Ian doesn’t mean to say it. This isn’t the place to be bringing up anything serious, especially not when Lip’s more than halfway to hammered, but, “I want you to be happy too,” still tumbles out of his mouth. “I want to help you. You need help.”

“Fuck, Ian. Really?” Lip turns away from him, stretches over the bar and refills his glass from the tap. “Just enjoy your wedding for fuck's sake.” When he’s facing forward again, he points to the dance floor. “Look at that. Look at all those fuckin’ people. They’re all thrilled for you. Jesus, even fuckin’ Frank seems happy. Just look and enjoy it.”

Ian worries Lip’s just trying to divert attention away from himself again, but he does look. He watches as Fiona bends down so Yevgeny can twirl her under his arm, watches as Svetlana whirls around the floor with a giggling Mandy in her arms, watches as V tugs at Mickey’s arm until he grudgingly, sort of dances with her.

“Dance with me?”

“Hey, Debs.” Ian grins and pulls her into a hug. “Where you been?”

“Stuffing my face, taking advantage of this whole open bar for family thing Kev’s got going, and trying to pretend I'm totally cool with being single,” she answers, before grabbing the sleeve of his shirt. “Come on, let’s dance.”

Lip nods to them, and Ian follows her out to the middle of the floor and twirls her around just as Yevgeny had attempted to do with Fiona. “So which one did you like better?”

“Well, they both have their merits,” Debbie says. “But this one has infinitely more alcohol. And cake. I do love cake.”

“Cake is always a plus.”

Debbie smiles and rests her head on Ian’s shoulder. Something about the gesture makes his chest feel tight. _Shit, am I gonna cry again? Do not cry again_.

Luckily, Mickey chooses that very moment to frantically meet his eyes. He’s still dancing with V, but he’s mouthing _help_ to Ian. The cry for assistance makes him laugh, as does the way Mickey pouts when Ian shakes his head no. That’s when he decides to take his brother’s advice to stop worrying and just appreciate this. This is the beginning of his and Mickey’s _better_ , and he’s not going to miss it.

 

* * *

 

There are rose petals all over their living room floor when they get home. The red, wilted things form a path to their bedroom door, where Ian’s sure there are more of them. “Do you think it was Mandy or Debs?”

“I think they worked together on this one.” Mickey kicks at the petals during his entire march to their room. “And they can have the honor of cleaning them all up.” Ian follows him after him. As he walks through door, Mickey flops down on the bed, stretches out his limbs like a starfish, and groans. “Fuck, I’m exhausted.”

“God, me too.” Ian starts taking off his clothes until he’s only in his underwear. “I haven’t danced that much since my stripping days.”

Mickey snorts. “I haven’t danced that much since ever.” Ian hears movement behind him and hopes Mickey’s shedding his own clothes. “Ay, you find time to take your meds tonight? I forgot to—”

“Yeah, I took them. I always take them.” There’s an edge to his voice he doesn’t intend to be there. He knows Mickey has noticed it and tensed up, even though he can’t see him.

“Sorry, man, I just—”

Ian sighs and turns back around. Mickey’s sitting on the bed in just his boxers now. “Don’t be sorry, please,” Ian says, crawling across the bed to sit next to him. He runs his fingers through Mickey’s hair and then lets them drift softly down his neck until they’re resting on his shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize for caring, alright? Never again. I promise.”

Mickey swipes his hand across his bottom lip and nods. “Okay.”

Ian pushes on Mickey’s shoulders until he’s lying back on the bed and Ian’s straddling his hips. Goosebumps break out across Mickey’s skin when Ian leans forward to press a wet kiss to his collarbone. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ian breathes against Mickey’s neck.

Mickey squirms underneath him and threads his fingers through Ian’s hair. “No, it was uh—it was kind of fun, actually.”

“ _Mm_ ,” Ian hums, dragging his lips over Mickey’s nipple as he does. Mickey’s hips buck up in response, and Ian grinds down against him. The thrill of skin against skin is just as exhilarating as it was when they first started fucking. “This part’s gonna be more fun though.” Ian continues kissing down Mickey’s body and nips at his jutting hip when he finally reaches the edge of his boxers. “Tell me what you want,” Ian says, as he hooks his fingers inside the band.

“Fuck,” Mickey exhales, looking down at Ian with hooded eyes. “Your mouth. I want your mouth. Please, Ian.”

A heat builds inside of him. _Please, Ian._ He has to take a deep breath to keep himself from just jumping Mickey’s bones right then. He wants to make this last. And, though he’d never admit it, he knows Mickey loves when Ian makes him wait.

“Where do you want my mouth?” Ian presses his lips to Mickey’s ribs, letting his tongue slide over the soft skin there. “Here?”

“Jesus, Ian.”

“Or maybe here?” Ian pushes back and kisses the trail of dark hair between his belly button and his boxers. Mickey’s hips thrust up again. “I’m getting closer, aren’t I?” Ian moves his hands under Mickey’s underwear and digs his fingertips into the sides of his ass. “Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck this. Get up here.”

The smirk disappears from Ian’s face. “What?"

“I _want_ you to get up here.” Mickey sits up and grabs the back of Ian’s neck, pulling him forward until their lips crash together. The kiss is harsh, with clashing teeth and searching tongues. It’s violent in its need, and Ian moans shamelessly into it. He’s so caught up in the taste of whiskey on Mickey’s tongue that he doesn’t realize he’s being shoved around until he’s lying flat on his back and his head is colliding with the pillows.

“You’re a tease, Gallagher."

“Yeah, so what’re you gonna do about it?”

Mickey flashes him a grin before speedily dispatching of Ian’s briefs. He moves further down the bed, dragging his fingernails lightly over Ian’s skin as he goes. Ian thinks Mickey’s going to get right to it to prove a point, but he moves leisurely instead. It feels like Mickey’s hands are everywhere, gliding over the every dip and freckle of Ian’s body. There’s reverence in his husband’s eyes, in his fingertips. Ian thinks it’s always been there, even when Ian was too stupid and anxious to notice it—that look in his eyes. Mickey loves him more than Ian ever thought he could be loved. It used to scare him, being loved this much. It scared him because he was sure he didn’t deserve it, that he would only end up ruining it. But it doesn’t scare him anymore. Instead, he craves it. Dreams of it every night and looks for it every morning. He hopes Mickey can see the same love in his eyes.

When Mickey’s lips finally wrap around his cock, Ian can’t control the loud, greedy noise that escapes his lips. “Shit, shit, shit.” Mickey bobs up and down, his warm mouth seeming to take him further in each time until Ian can barely breathe. “Shit, you’re perfect. You’re—”

Mickey lets Ian’s dick fall out of his mouth with a _pop_ , and Ian whines in protest. “Don’t be a bitch. You wanna get on me or what?”

“Yeah. Fuck. Turn over,” Ian instructs, voice quiet but dark. Mickey grins, baring his teeth, and hastily complies, laying on his stomach. The scars littered across Mickey’s back catch in the light of their room, and Ian’s instantly transfixed by them. Most of them are smooth and even lighter than Mickey’s pale skin. Except the newest one. It’s still red and healing. Ian smooths his hand over it, like that might repair it.

“You gonna start teasing me again, Gallagher?” Mickey cranes his neck to look back at him, waiting for an answer, but Ian’s already moving further up his body. He traces the scar on Mickey’s shoulder, the one that Iggy had accidentally given him when they were messing around as kids. Then his hands journey down Mickey’s sides, one pausing over another scar slashing across his ribs. This one is courtesy of Terry, as so many of them are. 

It’s not until Ian arrives at the worst of them all, the mark Terry left when he tried to rid himself of his youngest son for good, that Mickey inhales sharply. “Ian,” Mickey murmurs. Ian covers the jagged scar with his hand and then his lips. He moves further down until his mouth hovering over the crack of Mickey’s ass, handing kneading his cheeks. “Ian,” Mickey says again. “Come _on_.”

“I’m getting there.” He leans forward on to his hands and knees, so he can reach the bedside table. Mickey smacks his arm away and grabs what Ian’s looking for himself, throwing the lube over his shoulder. “Eager,” Ian laughs, even as he hurriedly pops open the lid and coats his fingers. “You good?”

“When the fuck am I not good?’

Ian smirks and runs one finger down the crack of Mickey’s ass until he’s circling his ultimate destination. He pushes one finger in carefully, only speeding up his movements when Mickey starts making breathy little noises of approval that leave Ian’s cock hot and hard and yearning. By the time he has a third finger inside of him, Mickey is practically whimpering, and Ian knows he’s ready.

“Turn over again.”

Ian holds Mickey’s shoulder to guide him back and then grabs a pillow to slip under him. “I want to see you,” he explains, as he settles his body on top of Mickey’s. Their lips meet again. This kiss is slower than the last one. It’s indulgent and sweet.

Part of him wants to lose himself in the kiss forever, but another part of him is aching for more. Ian breaks away, sits back on his knees, and spreads Mickey’s legs further apart. After he strokes his dick a couple of times, he lines himself up and starts to gradually push in. Mickey’s legs wrap around him, his heels digging into the backs of Ian’s thighs, driving him forward. When Ian’s finally fully inside, he pauses and then stretches out over Mickey again, bracing himself with one arm. He slides his free hand up Mickey’s chest until it’s wrapped loosely around the base of his throat. “I wrote vows, you know.”

Mickey’s eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is parted slightly. He pushes himself back against Ian, silently urging him to start moving, but Ian’s not quite ready yet. “Do you want to hear them?” he asks. “The vows.”

“I want you to fucking _move_ ,” Mickey growls back. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I can do both.”

“Ian, Jesus fuck, just—”

Ian cuts Mickey’s thought off by pulling almost all the way out and then slamming himself back inside again. A groan erupts from deep in Mickey’s chest, one that signals both relief and a need for _more_. And Ian gives him more, pushing in slowly but deliberately, over and over again until he finds the spot he’s looking for.

“Fuck, Ian. There. _Harder_.”

“I vow to always show enthusiasm when I blow you, even when I’m not really in the mood,” Ian says, without breaking their rhythm.

“Like you’re ever not— _ah fuck—_ ” Mickey’s back arches and his fingers dig into Ian’s forearm, “—like you’re ever not in the mood.”

“And I vow to always worship your ass, even when it’s old and wrinkled and—”

“Ay, how—how dare you fuckin’ suggest—”

“And I vow to never touch your beloved Fruit Loops, even when I’m starving and they’re the only food left in the house,” Ian continues, as a bead of sweat drips down the side of his neck. He runs his mouth along the edge of Mickey’s jaw, gently nipping at the skin there. He sounds breathless, and his words are starting to slur together a little, but he keeps going. “And I vow to try not to wake you up when I leave for my early runs, even though you always wake up anyways.”

“Gallagher, these are the dumbest—”

“And I vow to never give you a reason to doubt how much I love you ever again.” Those words hush whatever Mickey was going to say. Ian lifts his head, so there eyes are locked together. Mickey doesn’t seem to even blink when Ian says, “And I vow that I won’t let you down again. No matter how hard it gets. I vow that I will never give up on us.”

With every promise he speaks, Ian moves harder, faster. He can feel the coil in his stomach tightening and knows he won’t be able to last much longer. Judging by the look on Mickey’s face when Ian reaches between them to wrap his hand around his cock, he’s just as close.

“Come on, come on, babe,” Ian urges, as his hand twists and moves over Mickey’s length. “Come on, come for me.”

“ _Fuck_.” Mickey spills on to Ian’s hand and across his own chest. The look on his face is beautiful and undone. His mouth is open, panting for air, and his eyes are still firmly focused on Ian’s.

Ian straightens back out, grips Mickey’s hips hard enough that there will be light bruises there in the morning, and hefts him up slightly for a better angle. His thrusts are more erratic now, and he lets his head loll back as he reaches his own climax with a grunt. “And I vow to never stop loving you,” he manages to huff out, as his body tenses and then relaxes again.

“Fuck,” Mickey repeats. “Holy fuck.”

“Yeah, holy fuck,” Ian agrees, as he slowly pulls out and collapses back on to the bed. “That was—shit, that was—”

“Do you mean all that stuff? The uh, the vows or whatever.”

Ian turns his head, but Mickey’s not looking at him anymore. “Of course I do.”

“Are you—?” The question hangs there incomplete, as Mickey worries at his lower lip. Ian watches as Mickey swallows and then clears his throat. “Are you mad I didn’t wanna say our own vows? I didn’t know you went and—” He stops again. “I never would’ve been able to write shit like that, Ian. I don’t fuckin’ know what to say.”

“Not mad,” Ian says, flipping on to his stomach, so he can bury his face in the crook of Mickey’s neck. “We don’t have to say stuff like that in front of other people. It’s not their business. I wrote those for you. I wanted _you_ to hear them.”

Mickey swallows loudly again. “I love you too, you know.”

“I know.”

“And all that stuff you said, I, uh, think that, too. I—um, I vow that, too.”

“I know.”

“Oh yeah, so you just know everything then, huh? Cocky bastard.” Mickey tilts his head and rests it against Ian’s. Ian hums in response, as Mickey shifts, so he can snake his arm around Ian’s waist. His fingers ghost over the dip of Ian’s spine and then rest on his lower back. “I think Kev was right. What he said. Some of it was stupid, but I think he’s right.”

“Which part?”

“That we got this.”

“Yeah, Mick,” Ian sighs into his neck. “We got this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. Next up is Mickey. :)


	20. For Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thanks for looking out for him. For being patient with him. I know it ain’t easy. I was never very good at it.”
> 
> It isn’t easy, and it is. Seeing Ian like this is scary and draining and exhausting. But taking care of him, refusing to give in to his worst instincts and freak out or run, that part comes natural. Like he was always meant to love Ian Gallagher, at his best and at his worst.

Even though he has been opening the bar for months now, it’s still strange to see it so empty and quiet when he turns the key and walks inside. The diner had always been so hectic during the breakfast rush that it had been easier for him to forget he wasn’t really a morning person. Now, standing behind the bar of the Alibi Room by himself, all he wants to do is crawl into one of the booths and nap until the first regular shows up.

The occasional early morning aside, it’s by far the best job Mickey’s ever had. The people aren’t the worst, he gets to drink for free most of the time, he hasn’t been shot at yet, and he’s not constantly looking over his shoulder for cops. Kev and V even trust him with the books now. He should resent that they’ve saddled him with numbers without any kind of raise, but, if he’s being honest, it’s the most accomplished he’s ever felt. It’s kind of satisfying to finally find a way to apply his former drug runner math skills to something legal.

People with actual careers and degrees would probably think it’s pathetic he’s so excited about managing the money for a shitty South Side bar that barely manages to make a profit. But fuck them. For most of his life, he assumed he’d end up a dead man before he hit thirty. Or at least be rotting away in prison. He hasn’t reached thirty yet, but he feels good about his chances for the first time. Even with a felony on his record, he somehow landed himself a full-time job, health insurance, a husband he loves, an awesome kid who doesn’t hate him, and an apartment of his own. Hell, he’s even paying taxes now, like a normal, law-abiding citizen. It’s a fucking miracle.

“Hey, Mickey! You here?”

Mickey stands up from behind the bar with a washcloth and starts wiping down the bar top. “Yeah, I’m here. What’re _you_ doing here?”

“My demon children woke me up at the ass crack of dawn with a load of bullshit,” V complains, as she slides on to the one of the stools. “Gemma was bitchin’ about Amy spilling juice on her favorite sweater like it was the end of the fuckin’ world. Like I didn’t buy that sweater for four bucks at the thrift store down the street.”

“So, what? You just left Kev there to sort out the sweater fight?”

“I didn’t leave him there. I _offered_ to head to the bar early. You know, to make sure you weren’t slackin’ off or something.”

Mickey snorts and throws the damp rag over his shoulder. “How kind of you.”

“Don’t give me that look. He’s the one who wanted those little monsters so badly anyways,” V says, flipping some of her hair back off her shoulder. “He can deal with their drama.”

This time Mickey full on laughs. “Don’t think you’re s’posed to say shit like that. Even if it’s true.”

“Whatever. Not like you’re gonna tell on me.” V sighs, rubs her eyes, and leans her elbows on the counter. “Jesus, it’s cold in here. It’s making me tired. You got coffee goin’ in the back?”

“Obviously.”

“Thank god. Get me some.”

“Get your own fuckin’ coffee,” Mickey says, as he pulls out the cutting board and prepares to chop up the limes, lemons, and oranges for the day. In Mickey’s opinion, screwing up perfectly good alcohol with fruit is nothing short of an atrocity, but the hipster crowd has yet to be convinced.

“Who’s the boss here, Milkovich?”

“Seriously? You’re pullin’ that?”

“I was torn from my precious sleep by two eleven-year-old devils shrieking about juice and sweaters and then I walked all the way over here in the freezing cold. Pretty sure I’ve got snow in my boots, so yeah, you can get me a fuckin’ cup of coffee.”

“Jesus, fine.”

“So what do you think about doing a ladies’ night soon?” V yells out from the bar, as he pours coffee into two mugs in the backroom. “The money’s lookin’ good this month, but I want it to look _great_ for once, you know? Know it ain’t your thing, but Kev thought it was a good idea.”

A ladies’ night would almost certainly be a nightmare. All the creepiest creeps in the South Side would be sure to show up, thinking it’s a surefire way to get laid. Watching old dudes aggressively hit on young women with zero interest in them is Mickey’s personal hell.

“No.”

Mickey sets the mugs down on the bar a little too forcefully, and V raises her eyebrows at him. She’s standing behind the bar now too, having taken over the task of cutting the fruit. It annoys him she’s already more than halfway done with it. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to fill the trays, and most of his slices look like shit.

“ _Okay_ ,” she drawls out. “Why?”

“The theory behind that is men drink more than women, right? So the women get a couple of drinks for free or at a discount while all the dudes who showed up to creep on ‘em spends lots of money. Problem there is most of the women around here drink too much for that shit. Big Sal alone could drink us out of a profit for the month.”

“Holy shit, Big Sal is a woman?”

“Short for Sally.”

“Fuck. Well. That’s news to me.” She shakes her head and neatly puts away the freshly cut fruit. “You might be right, though.”

“I’m always right." 

She puts her hands on her hips and looks him up and down like she’s trying to remind he ain’t much. “Don’t go getting cocky on me. I get enough shit at home.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He grabs the rag from his shoulder and makes his way to the other side of the bar to start cleaning the tables. He stops short when his phone starts buzzing in his back pocket. He can’t imagine why anyone would be calling him now, but when he sees his home number, he picks up. “Yo, Ian, what’s up?”

“Um, Dad?”

The sound of Yevgeny’s voice makes him stand straighter. “Yeah, everything alright?”

“I, um, I’m not sure.”

“What d’you mean you’re not sure? What happened? Where’s Ian?” The questions spill out rapidly, all in one breath. Something’s wrong. He’s not sure how he already knows. Maybe he can hear it in the small quiver of his son’s voice.

“Ian told me not to call.”

“Why? Yev, what’s going on? Somethin’ happen?” His voice is too high, too loud, but he can’t control it. He can feel V staring at him.

“I don’t want him to be mad at me.”

“He ain’t gonna be mad at you. Just tell me.” He tries to make his voice sound reassuring, but he’s not sure he’s doing a good job of it. Maybe he should already be sprinting back home instead of standing in the middle of the bar like an asshole, but he can’t fathom what could have gone so wrong since the time he left the house until now. Both Ian and Yevgeny were still asleep when he got up. Sure, Ian was almost always up before him, even on his days off, but they had gone to bed late the night before, so it didn’t set off any alarm bells.

“I think, uh, I think he might be sick?”

“He throwin’ up or something?”

“Um, no, he’s, um—he just won’t get out of bed. I asked if he was okay, but he keeps telling me to leave him alone. He sounds mad. Did I do something wrong?” Yevgeny’s voice cracks on the word _wrong_. Mickey knows he’s trying not to cry.

His stomach sinks. No, it doesn’t just sink, it fucking plummets like he’s hurtling down the highest drop of the most terrifying roller coaster in the world. “Fuck,” he breathes out, scrubbing a hand over his face. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Dad, I—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Mickey repeats firmly. “Ian’s just not feeling well, okay? I’m leaving now. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just hang out in the living room for a while. Watch some TV.”

“But—”

“He just needs some space, Yev. I promise. I’ll sort it all out when I’m home.”

Yev sniffs and says, “Okay.”

“Alright, hold tight. I’m coming.”

When he hangs up the phone, he turns around to find V still staring at him. She’s got her arms crossed in front of her chest and her mouth set in a hard line. “Ian?”

Mickey nods. “He’s uh—I think it might be, you know.”

“Damn it.” She uncrosses her arms and presses her palms over her eyes for a moment. “But he’s been doing so great lately.”

Ian has been doing great lately. About two months ago he had been promoted to manager at work when the owner’s son decided he wanted to strike out to Pennsylvania and start his own Rosa’s Café there. The new responsibility invigorated him, and he had been so excited to use his upgraded paycheck to buy Yevgeny’s and the rest of the family’s Christmas presents. Judging by the amount of boxes currently under the dinky little tree in their living room, he had gone a bit overboard. But he was happy. They were both happy. So of course it all comes crashing down four days before Christmas. The luck of the Gallaghers strikes again.

“I need to—”

“I know you do,” she says softly. “Go, now. I’ll call Kev. It’s fine.”

Mickey nods to her again. “Thanks.”

“Want me to call Fiona?”

There’s a stabbing sensation in his gut, quick and sharp. The offer bothers him even though it probably shouldn’t. “No, I got this.”

 

* * *

 

It all looks so devastatingly familiar. Ian is completely still. If not for the faint sound of his breathing, Mickey would probably be checking for a pulse. The covers are bunched up around his neck. His back is turned to the door. He’s motionless, but he’s not sleeping. His eyes are open when Mickey makes his way to the other side of their bed. Open and blank. Ian’s right in front of him, but everything about him seems far away.

It _feels_ familiar, too. The immediate sense of helplessness. It’s like he’s nineteen-years-old again and can’t figure out why his boyfriend won’t get out of bed. He positions himself in Ian’s line of sight, but his husband gives no indication he even realizes Mickey’s there. It’s not easy to resist the urge to start shouting, to demand Ian acknowledge him. He knows better than that though. Knows that as hard as this is for him, it’s hell for Ian.

“Ian,” he whispers, bending at his knees and cautiously resting the palm of his hand on his cheek. “Not feeling so good, huh? Ian?” No reaction. He doesn’t even tell Mickey to go away. “Just, please, just say something.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Yevgeny is standing in the door when Mickey looks up. His eyes are on Ian’s back. “He was okay last night.”

“I’ll be right back,” Mickey tells Ian, before straightening up. He puts his hand on his son’s back and gently guides him away from the room. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

They sit at the table. There’s a saran-wrapped plate of cookies that Ian baked between them. Dozens of sugar cookies shaped like little Christmas trees with bright green frosting and M&Ms for the ornaments. Mickey just stares at them for a moment, until he hears Yevgeny start sniffling again. Tears are shining in his eyes. Tears that Mickey feels powerless to stop.

“Remember when Ian and I talked to you about his bipolar disorder?” Yevgeny furrows his brow and then nods. “Remember how we said sometimes Ian feels really sad?” He nods again. “He’s feeling sad right now. And it’s not because of you or me or Ian. Or anyone, okay? It’s the disorder. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“So, do we—do we make him happy?” Yevgeny asks. “I could play that song on the recorder for him again. Or maybe we could go skating? Ian likes skating.”

“It’s not that simple, bud,” Mickey says, doing his best to remain composed and ignore the ache in his chest. “Ian has to go to the doctor, and they might need to adjust the medication he takes. But he probably won’t be feeling up to much for—”

“He won’t miss Christmas, right?” Yev exclaims, with wide eyes. “He _can’t_ miss Christmas. What about the dinner at Fiona’s? What about—?”

“Yev, listen,” Mickey gently interrupts, “I know it’s Christmas, but this isn’t something that Ian can control, alright? He’s going to get better, but it might not be in time for the dinner and everything.”

Yevgeny stomps his feet on the floor. His small hands curl up into fists before he crosses them and tucks them under his armpits. “It’s not fair!” he shouts, loudly enough to make Mickey flinch. “It’s _not_ fair. We had plans! Ian was going to take me to the mall today, so I could get something for Amy and Gemma too. Now I won’t have anything to give them!”

It isn’t fair, but when has life ever been fair for them? Part of him wants to throw a fit right along with his son, wants to pound his fists on the table and curse and maybe cry. _Stay calm_ , he instructs himself. _You have to stay calm._ “I think your Aunt Fiona is home today. She can take you—”

“I want _Ian_ to take me!” Yevgeny cries out. There’s moisture clinging to his cheeks and snot starting to run down his nose. Mickey rips off a paper towel from the roll next to the cookies and tries to wipe some of it away, but Yev recoils from him. “I’m going to ask him again. He’ll take me. I know it,” he declares, before shooting up and running toward the bedroom again.

He’s got his hand on the doorknob when Mickey catches up to him and wraps his arms around his son. “Ian’s not going to be able to go to the mall today,” Mickey says, as a chorus of _stay calm stay calm stay calm_ plays through his head. “He’s sick, and I know that sucks, but he just can’t. Do you understand that?”

Yevgeny lets his hand fall from the knob. “It’s not fair,” he says again.

“I know, kid. But he’s going to be alright. Do you believe me?”

It’s quiet for a moment. There’s only Yevgeny’s heavy breathing and occasional snuffle. Mickey’s starting to worry the kid thinks he’s full of shit when he finally nods. “Yeah.”

“Do you mind going to Aunt Fiona’s for a while?”

“No. I guess. If you want me to.”

“Just while I take Ian to see the doctor, okay?”

“Why can’t I come with you?”

_Because I don’t want you to be there if they have to take him away. I never want you to see that._ “They don’t allow kids,” he claims. “It’s just for adults.”

“Fine.”

Mickey sighs and loosens his grip on him. “Thank you,” he says, running a hand through Yevgeny’s dark hair. It’s getting long. Too long, but Svetlana says he throws a fit whenever she takes him to get it cut. “I’m proud of you.”

“Whatever. I don’t care.” He wiggles out of Mickey’s arms, sticks out his bottom lip, and scuffs his shoe against the carpet. “What- _fucking_ -ever.”

It’s not the first time he’s heard his son swear, but this time catches him off guard. It’s not the kind of accidental slip inevitable for a kid raised by people with the mouths of sailors. It’s angry and pointed. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said whatever!” Yevgeny shouts back. “Just leave me alone or send me to Fiona’s or _whatever_!” With that, he marches away, making sure the floor shakes with every heavy step he takes. When he reaches his room, he disappears inside and slams the door.

_Stay calm stay calm stay calm._

 

* * *

 

It’s dark inside of their bedroom when he finally returns from Fiona’s, but the lump that is Ian is still plenty visible. The house is quiet now. Too quiet with Yevgeny gone.

Mickey sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the door instead of facing him. “How are you feeling?” he asks, even though he’s sure he won’t get an answer. He expects silence. He expects blank stares. He expects to have to throw Ian over his shoulder and carry him to the car.

What he doesn’t expect is for Ian to say, “Did I scare him?” Ian’s voice is quiet and hoarse. There’s some uncertainty there, like Ian is just as surprised as Mickey is that he spoke.

“Scare who?”

“Our son,” Ian answers. “I heard him yelling. He never yells.”

“All kids yell. That’s what kids do.”

“Not him.”

Mickey considers his next words carefully. He wants to be honest without making it sound like it’s Ian’s fault. “He was upset when I told him you might not be up for Christmas this year,” he explains. “It’s our first Christmas all together, and he’s just—” He almost says _disappointed_ but thinks better of it. “He’s just upset, so he threw a fit. Kids throw fits. You didn’t scare him.”

“I was supposed to take him to the mall today. I promised him.”

“Ian—”

“Monica promised to take me skating once. It was after Christmas, I think, but I was still on school break. We were gonna go down to where the park had frozen over, just the two of us. Fiona had somehow managed to get me and Lip skates. I was so excited to use them.”

Mickey knows exactly where this story is heading. Monica is a dark subject for Ian. Maybe the darkest. Any conversation that can lead to him comparing himself to her is bound to be a disaster, but he’s so relieved Ian’s actually talking, he can’t bring himself to interrupt.

“But she wouldn’t get out of bed the next morning. Frank was passed out downstairs and everyone else had gone out to breakfast, so it was just us. I showed her my new skates and I begged her to get up, and it was like she didn’t even know I was there. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at the wall. Scared the shit out of me.”

“You didn’t know what was happening,” Mickey says, as he spins himself around. He scoots across the bed until he’s sitting right by Ian. He knows Ian doesn’t always like to be touched when he’s feeling like this, but Mickey chances a hand on his shoulder. “Yevgeny knows. We told him about this. He knows it’s going to be okay.”

“Does he?” Ian slouches his shoulder, and Mickey reluctantly takes back his hand. “Being told about it and seeing it are two different things.”

“Maybe,” Mickey concedes, “But he trusts us. He’s upset now, but he won’t stay upset. He just wants you to get better.” Ian buries his face further into the pillow, which makes it impossible for Mickey to hear whatever it is he mumbles next. He only catches the end. It sounds a lot like _my fault_. “This isn’t your fault, Ian,” he insists. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is,” Ian insists. “I stopped taking them. I stopped taking my meds.”

It feels like someone has just dumped an entire fucking sea of ice water over his head. He can’t move. He can’t speak. He can barely breathe. Too many emotions are fighting within him for control. He feels angry. He feels guilty. He feels scared. But mostly he’s confused. After all they’ve gone through to get to this point, how could Ian do something like this?

“When?” he finally manages to grit out.

“A few days ago. I was feeling—I was feeling so shitty. Like I was underwater. Like I wasn’t even real, just going through the motions. I just wanted to be normal again. I didn’t want to ruin everything for Christmas. I thought I’d feel better. I thought the pills were doing it. I thought if I just—" 

“Just _what_? Went against what you promised me?” Mickey snaps. “What happened to telling me when you were feeling like that? What happened to asking for help?”

Ian winces, and Mickey can’t help but feel like an asshole for raising his voice, even if he has the right to be pissed. “I’m sorry. I felt like I was ruining everything,” Ian mumbles. “It was stupid.”

“Yeah, it was.” He leans over Ian, turns on the bedside lamp, and yanks open the drawer of his nightstand a little too aggressively. “But you’re gonna take ‘em now.” He pulls out the orange bottles and picks out Ian’s morning pills. When he’s got the right ones, he holds them in the palm of his hand in front of Ian’s face. “Here. There’s water next to you.”

Ian shakes his head. “I’m so tired.”

“Fuckin’ take the pills, Ian.” The tears that start rolling silently down Ian’s cheeks make his chest feel uncomfortably tight, but they don’t break his resolve. If he has to shove these stupid things down Ian’s throat, he will. “Come on. _Please_.”

Ian moves slowly, almost like he’s a video being played in slow-motion, but he reaches for the pills and then swallows them when Mickey hands him the water bottle. “Why do you do this? Why don’t you just leave?” Mickey leans over Ian again to get a better look at his face. It’s all scrunched up like Mickey knew it would be. “You could do better than me,” he continues, squeezing his eyes shut. “You don’t have to put up with this.”

_Fuck, not this shit again._ He hates when Ian gets in these moods, when he becomes fixated on the idea that he doesn’t _deserve_ the things he has. “So Monica didn’t take you skating,” Mickey begins, “But you took me and Yev skating, didn’t you? Just last weekend. Honestly, I thought I was gonna hate it. What’s so fun about being out in the cold for hours and fallin’ on your ass, right? But I didn’t hate it. Because you were smiling and there were snowflakes in your hair, and I thought, fuck, he’s beautiful. How the fuck did I get so lucky? You hear me?” Ian doesn’t answer. “So, you fucked up. It happens. You told me about it, and now we’re gonna fix it. Doesn’t mean I’m not still lucky to have you. Doesn’t mean you’re suddenly not the only fuckin’ person I want, that I’ll ever want.”

Ian doesn’t say anything, but Mickey’s not surprised. It’s a small wonder he’s managed to say as much as he has. But he does stop crying, and he does stop trying to convince Mickey to leave him alone.

“We’re gonna go to the doctor, alright? I already called them. You’re gonna tell them everything you told me, ‘kay?” No answer. “You gonna get up on your own, or do I have to pick you up myself and drag you there? You know I will.”

There’s a tug at the corner of Ian’s lips. A tiny flicker of a smile that makes Mickey feel infinitely better. It’s gone so quickly that he very well could have imagined it, but it’s a comfort all the same. It takes a few long minutes, but Ian does eventually get up. He leans against the wall and lets Mickey button up his shirt and slip on his shoes. “It’s gonna be alright,” Mickey assures him, as he pulls a knit cap over Ian’s hair. “We’ll figure it out. You trust me?”

Ian’s not meeting his eyes, but he whispers, “Yeah, Mick. I do.”

 

* * *

 

Fiona can’t stop moving. In between pacing around his kitchen and tidying up his already fairly tidy cabinets, she’ll sit across from him and pull at her hair, as her leg bounces up and down under the table. “I don’t know how this happened.”

It’s obvious to him now that there aren’t a million different things on his mind. He remembers Ian getting anxious that there were too many people already skating on the ice, that one of them would end up hurting Yevgeny. He remembers Ian tossing and turning in his sleep. He remembers Ian saying he was too tired when Mickey started kissing his neck a few nights ago. He remembers Ian picking at his food, not really eating it. Alone, they aren’t much. But together, he should have noticed. He should have realized.

“The doctor adjusted his meds. They talked for a long time. Ian seemed better afterwards.”

“Then why isn’t he down here?”

The tone of her voice puts him on edge. It sounds like she’s accusing him of something, though he’s not sure what. “He’s exhausted. This always happens when his meds change. Sometimes he gets sick, has bad dreams and shit.”

“This is the second time in less than a year, right?” _This is the second time since_ you _came back into his life_ , is what Mickey actually hears. “Did the doctor seem worried about that?”

Mickey shrugs, because he’s not really sure. The guy is friendly enough, but during the couple of times they’ve met, Mickey hasn’t managed to get much of a read on him. Ian likes him though. That’s all that matters. “Didn’t lock him away, so no,” Mickey spits back. The response is too harsh. She has every right to be worried about her little brother, but he can’t shake the suspicion she thinks he’s the one to blame for this.

“Fuck, I didn’t even think about that,” she mutters, pulling at her hair again. She stands up and resumes her pacing by the sink. “Is he—do you think he’s gonna be able to come around for Christmas? Probably not, huh? We were supposed to visit Lip, too.”

Mickey shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

Her eyes are glassy. She keeps blinking, clearly intent on not crying in front of him, which he appreciates. The right thing to do would probably be to say something comforting, maybe even give her a hug or something. But Mickey doesn’t move from his chair. He wishes she’d just leave, so he could go back to his room and listen to the breathy noises Ian makes when he’s sleeping and check for the hundredth time that day that he’s still okay, that he’s still here.

“I wish Lip were here.”

Something in him snaps. _You weren’t there._ Lip’s voice echoes in his ears. He thinks about Ian shivering in an alley. He thinks about Ian calling his phone and getting no answer. It’s suddenly like a dam has burst. A dam that was holding back a bunch of dumbass, insecure word vomit. “The fuck does he need to be here for? What good’s he gonna do?” Mickey shouts. “You don’t think I can take care of my own husband or somethin’? I ain’t nineteen-years-old anymore. I know how this shit works just as well as any of you do. I’m here now, and I ain’t goin’ anywhere again. Lip don’t know shit that I don’t know. He’s gonna be fine. Don’t need fuckin’ Lip Gallagher riding in here like some kinda drunken white knight to save the day. _I_ can handle this. _I_ can take care of him.”

Fiona answers his rant with a derisive snort. “Well, excuse me for wishing my brother wasn’t stuck in fucking rehab right now, so he could be here for his _best friend_. Excuse me for wanting to help and for worrying ‘bout the fact that I got one brother who can’t stay sober and one who can’t get out of bed. Fuck you, Mickey. This ain’t about you. I didn’t say shit about you.”

She’s right. She didn’t say anything. Fuck, maybe he’s losing his mind, too. “It’s my fault,” he blurts out, without thinking. “I should have noticed. I should have seen it coming.”

The anger fades from Fiona’s face. Her shoulders slump forward, and she finally stops shuffling around for a moment. “He’s good at hiding things when he wants to. You know that. No one blames you for this, Mickey.”

That’s not quite true, because he’s doing a pretty good job of blaming himself right now. “The signs were there,” he tells her. “Now that I, you know, look back on it. But Yevgeny was here and I had to work every day ‘cos everyone wants to get trashed around Christmas and when I wasn’t workin’ I was runnin’ around getting gifts and shit and—fuck, I just didn’t see it.”

Fiona shrugs, casually, like they’re discussing the fucking weather. “Still not your fault.”

He breathes through his nose and tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “Did Yevgeny behave? At your house? I’m sorry about that.”

“He’s always welcome at my house,” she says. “And yeah, he was a little upset at first. I couldn’t get him to eat anything, but he was fine. He’s a good kid.”

“Thanks for watching him.”

“Sure.”

He looks at her again and nervously swipes at his bottom lip. “Sorry I just lost my shit at you.”

A smile spreads across her face. “I get it. Everyone’s lost their shit at some point in this family. You fit right in.” He tries to smile back, but he knows it must look forced. Maybe it’s because of that she then proceeds to wrap her arms around his shoulders in a tight hug. “Thanks for looking out for him. For being patient with him. I know it ain’t easy. I was never very good at it.”

It isn’t easy, and it is. Seeing Ian like this is scary and draining and exhausting. But taking care of him, refusing to give in to his worst instincts and freak out or run, that part comes natural. Like he was always meant to love Ian Gallagher, at his best and at his worst.

Mickey clumsily pats her on the back. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“You better.” She drags a hand through her hair again, leaving it even messier than before. “I’m gonna head home. Liam’s alone with the baby, and I don’t trust him not to burn my house down. Let me know when he’s up to seeing people, yeah?”

That’s when he sees it, or hears it maybe. Trust. She trusts him with Ian. “Yeah,” he croaks out, his throat feeling tight all of a sudden. “Will do.”

“Okay. Merry Christmas, Mickey.”

“Yeah, you too, Fi.”

 

* * *

 

Christmas morning is awkward. Ian does get out of bed, but aside from a few intermittent one-word answers, he’s not really speaking. He’s not really making eye contact either. This only prompts Yevgeny to talk more. It seems like he thinks if he can only stumble upon some magical topic of conversation, Ian will turn back into Ian again, so he’s blazing through them all. It’s hard to watch Yevgeny yapping a mile-a-minute, desperate for some kind of reaction. It’s also hard to watch Ian force himself to nod and smile, desperate to flee back to the solitude of their bedroom.

Observing the one-sided conversation distracts him into burning the pancakes a few times, but he eventually manages to get them right. Breakfast offers a merciful break from Yevgeny’s stream-of-consciousness blabber. The kid immediately stuffs his face, but Ian doesn’t eat, just pushes the food around on his plate.

“You gotta eat, man,” Mickey tells him quietly. “You’re gonna get sick if you don’t.” Ian grimaces and continues pressing his fork into pieces without actually lifting them to his mouth. “Ian, come on. I’m not trying to be a dick here, but you know what happens.”

“What happens?” Yevgeny asks, around a mouthful of food.

“Chew with your mouth closed,” Ian chides, handing Yevgeny a paper towel for the syrup dribbling down his chin. “And if I don’t eat with my pills, sometimes I get a stomachache.”

Yevgeny swallows and takes a swig of his orange juice before responding. “So why don’t you eat? They’re really good pancakes.”

“Damn right they are,” Mickey agrees.

“I’m not feeling very hungry. My stomach already hurts.”

“Oh.” Yevgeny frowns and then looks around the kitchen. After a moment of searching, he springs up from his chair and holds up the loaf of bread on the counter. “How about toast instead then?” he suggests, eyes wide and hopeful. “Mom says it’s good for stomachaches, and it might be easier to eat than pancakes. Want me to make it for you?”

That earns a genuine smile out of Ian, and the sight of it almost knocks Mickey breathless. He can tell Ian’s thinking the same thing he is. How did a kid with such a fucked up start in life end up this nice and well-adjusted? How did they manage to not fuck him up? “Sure. Thanks, Yev." 

“Cool. Butter or jelly?”

“Butter, please.”

When Yevgeny turns around to plug in the toaster, Mickey slips his hand under the table and entwines his fingers with Ian’s. When Ian doesn’t pull away from the touch, he squeezes. Ian doesn’t squeeze his hand back, but he starts tracing small circles over Mickey’s thumb with his own.

After eating, Yevgeny bounds over to the tree in the living room while Ian and Mickey follow behind him. They all open their gifts. Ian moves through his slowly at first, but he gets more energetic and alert with each new present Yevgeny opens. Their son gets excited about every single thing, even a pack of socks that Mickey got on clearance at the big box store. Mickey guesses he’s acting that way for Ian’s benefit, and it appears to be working.

It’s more than either of them ever had as kids. Mickey’s mother put in some effort every now and then before she died. They never had a tree, but she’d leave worn out clothes and half-broken toys she had bought (or maybe stolen) from the local thrift store at the ends of their beds. Fiona was probably better about it, but he can’t imagine she was able to afford much more. It’s bizarre, seeing multiple books and DVDs and shirts strewn about the floor. Bizarre and kind of really fucking amazing at the same time.

“Do you like your gift?”

The armchair isn’t big enough for two people, but Ian just puts his arm around Yev when the kid plops down next to him on it anyways, half on Ian’s lap. The watch he and Yev picked out for Ian is already on his wrist. “Of course I do,” he says. “I love it. Bet you picked it out, huh? Your dad doesn’t have such good taste.”

“Ay, fuck you,” Mickey laughs. “I’m not the one who wears flannel shirts every day.”

“At least my jeans actually fit.”

“Well, fuck me for not wanting to spend half my morning twisting and shoving myself into skinny jeans like _some_ people.”

“My jeans aren’t _that_ tight.”

“You guys are weird,” Yevgeny interjects, but there’s a grin on his face. He looks just as relieved as Mickey feels to hear Ian sounding like himself again.

“Yeah, we are,” Ian says. “So, what d’you think? Good Christmas?”

Yevgeny nods. “Yeah! Especially now that you’re feeling better. You’re feeling better, right?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely feeling better. Think it was the toast.”

 

* * *

 

“Why can’t I stay longer?”

Mickey clenches his jaw and just barely resists rolling his eyes. That’s at least the fourth time Yevgeny has asked him that question in the span of ten minutes. “Because you gotta have Christmas with your mom and Alex too. And then you gotta go back to school. We’ve gone over this, kid. They’re gonna be here any minute. Your mom’s not gonna be happy about driving all the way out here just for you to give her shit, is she?”

Yevgeny frowns and juts out his chin, a quirk he no doubt picked up from Ian. It makes Mickey want to hug the kid, even if he’s working his last nerve. He opens his mouth, probably ready to argue his point further, but he’s cut off by a knock on the door.

“And there she is,” Mickey says. “You better not have been lying when you said you were all packed up. Get your stuff.”

“But I didn’t say goodbye to Ian.”

“Yes, you did. He was just here. Let the guy sleep.” Yevgeny pouts, actually fucking pouts, and Mickey can’t help but give in to him. “Alright, fine, go say goodbye. Be quick.”

The pitter-patter of Yevgeny dashing to the bedroom sounds from behind him, as Mickey opens the front door. Svetlana is standing outside, glaring at the snow by her feet. “Is too cold to be outside,” she says in greeting. “You always make people wait this long? Where is Yevgeny?”

“Hey, Svet, great to see you,” Mickey drones, as he motions her inside. “Yev’s just saying goodbye to Ian. He’ll be out in a sec.”

“And how is orange boy?”

“Better,” Mickey says. “Sorry if I freaked you out when I called. Still didn’t really know how serious it was. But everything’s—”

“Hey, dad!” Yevgeny calling out cuts him off. “Could you come over here?”

It’s kind of impressive how quickly he can transition from general early morning lethargy to full-blown panic. He’s running before he even really knows what he’s afraid of finding. There’s something in Yevgeny’s voice that instantly sends him plunging down a rabbit hole of worst case scenarios.

“What is it?” Svetlana asks, before Mickey can find the same words.

“Ian’s locked in the bathroom. He won’t answer me. I think he’s fine, but I just—”

That’s all Mickey needs to hear. He rushes past his son, past his own bed, and then slams his fist against the bathroom door. “Ian, open the fuck up!” There’s no answer. No sounds or signs of movement inside. “Ian!” he shouts again. “I’ll kick this fucking door down!”

The door swings open before Mickey can launch into his next round of frantic knocking. “Jesus,” Ian says, having the gall to actually look irritated with _him_. “Can I not go to the fuckin’ bathroom without you going off now?” Ian glowers at him, but his face softens when he lifts his eyes and sees Svetlana at the door. “Oh, hey, Svet,” he says, moving around Mickey to give her a hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t come out to see you. ‘M not feeling well.”

“Is okay. All this excitement and yelling just wakes me up for long drive. Like good old days at shitty house.” She smooths her hand over Ian’s hair and then kisses him on the cheek. “Yevgeny, say goodbye to Ian. We must go.”

Ian bends down slightly and holds his arms open. “C’mere,” he says to Yev, motioning him forward. “I’m gonna miss you.”

Yevgeny hugs Ian tight, but he’s chewing on his lower lip like he’s worried he’s done something bad. “I didn’t—I’m sorry I called for dad.”

“It’s okay,” Ian says, cupping his cheek. “You were just worried about me. That’s okay. But I’m gonna be fine. You believe that, right?”

“You promise?”

“I promise,” Ian says. “Now go hug your dad one more time and let’s get you on the road, huh?”

There’s an unmistakable tension in the air as soon as Svetlana and Yevgeny leave. Mickey can tell Ian’s pissed off but that doesn’t stop him from going into their bathroom and counting all of the pills in there anyways. Just in case.

“I didn’t take anything, Mick. Well, anything I’m not supposed to take, at least.”

“I’m just—”

“I’m crazy, not a moron,” Ian hisses. “I know exactly what you’re doing, so don’t try to feed me some bullshit.”

“Fine. I’m making sure you didn’t fuckin’ take anything or hurt yourself,” Mickey snaps back. “What happened anyways? Were you taking a shit or something? Too preoccupied to just tell Yev to hold on for a sec?”

Ian shakes his head and walks away from the bathroom. He’s sprawled out on top of the covers by the time Mickey follows after him. “I was hiding,” Ian says, voice muffled by his pillow. “I look like a zombie. Fuck, I _feel_ like a zombie. I just didn’t want Svetlana to see me. I was worried she might stop letting Yev come visit.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a fuckin’ psycho,” Ian spits. “Why the fuck do you think?”

“You’re not a pyscho,” Mickey sighs. “No one thinks that.”

“I kidnapped her baby once. I wouldn’t blame her for thinking it.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah, and here we are again, however many years later, and I’m still fucking everything up.”

“You’re real good at feeling sorry for yourself, aren’t you?”

The shades are drawn, but even in the dark, Mickey can see Ian’s shoulders tense up around his neck. He sits up straight, moving so quickly that Mickey takes a step back in surprise. “I’m not feeling sorry for _me_ , asshole. I feel sorry for _you_. What if she takes him away from us because of me? How the fuck would I live with that?”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I just fucking do!” Mickey yells, throwing up his hands. “You messed up, Ian. I’m not gonna stand here and pretend like you didn’t. And I’m probably not gonna trust you as much I did for a while. But that doesn’t mean I’m suddenly regretting being with you or whatever the hell it is you’re thinking right now. You fucked up, you told me about, and we dealt with it. Back when we were first dealing with this, we never could’ve done that without falling apart. Silver linings, right?”

Ian shakes his head and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I just—I didn’t want to let you down like this again. I really didn’t. I still can’t believe it happened. And, fuck, at Christmas. Could I have worse timing?”

“Hey,” Mickey says, holding Ian’s face between his hands. “You didn’t let me down. I hope next time you tell me earlier if you’re feeling off, but you did _not_ let me down. Don’t you remember the vows we said? ‘Cos we said ‘em twice, so you should. For better or worse, right? So this is worse. Who gives a fuck? It’s gonna get better, because it’s you and me, and we’re still here. I love you, and I need you, you got that? Fuckups and all.”

Ian’s full-on sobbing by the time he finishes speaking. He pulls Mickey down until they’re both on the bed and then collapses against him, burying his face in his chest. “I’m so sorry,” Ian chokes out. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Mickey holds him close, rubbing his back with one hand and threading the other through his hair. “Remember when you promised me you wouldn’t stop trying?” Ian nods his head against him. “Do you plan on giving up anytime soon? Running on off on me?”

“No,” Ian sniffs. “Never.”

“Then we’re good, Ian. We’re sure as fuck gonna talk about this more when you’re up to it, but we’re good.”

 

* * *

 

“You just come over here to play on your phone while I cook?”

Carl shoots Mickey a thoroughly unimpressed look from where he’s sitting on the counter. “Pouring pasta sauce out of a jar into pot ain’t cooking, man.”

“Ay, I’m boiling the pasta, too.”

“A monkey could boil pasta.”

“Yeah, alright, smartass, what do you want?" 

“I keep failing my GED practice exams, and Fi’s starting to get pissed. She doesn’t think I’m trying, but all I do is read those fuckin’ books these days,” Carl complains. “Ain’t gettin’ any smarter, far as I can tell. But you managed to pass it, so.”

“So what? You trying to call me dumb?”

Carl rolls his eyes. “No, but you’re like me, you know? Fiona, Ian, and Debs might’ve dropped out too, but they sort of actually paid attention in school while they were there. Passed their classes and shit. I never got past eighth grade, and I’m pretty sure you never got past ninth.”

_He’s got a point there._ “I’ve already told you what you need to do.”

Carl squints at him. “Um, remind me?”

“You don’t actually listen much, do you?” Mickey grumbles, as he stirs the sauce.

“Not my fault. Frank thinks I got that attention disorder.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t put much into what Frank says. What _I_ told you is you gotta suck it up and take the class instead of trying to do it on your own. I took a class in prison. Sometimes you need someone else going over it with you for it to make sense.”

“I don’t wanna waste my nights sitting around with a bunch of whiny high school dropouts.”

“Why? You’d fit right in.”

Carl flips him off. “But it’s gonna be so fucking boring.”

“Whatever, listen to me or don’t. It’s your ass.” When the sauce is acceptably hot, Mickey lifts the pot and empties it over the cooked pasta. It might be the cheap, store brand stuff from a jar, but it smells fucking delicious. “Just give it a shot. Maybe you’ll meet a girl there.”

Carl perks up a little at that suggestion but quickly tries to look casual again. In fact, he throws in a scoff to prove just how casual he is. “Don’t need a girl,” he mutters, looking down at his phone again. “So where’s Ian? Still feelin’ down?”

“Nah, he’s alright.” Mickey hopes he sounds more confident in that answer than he really is. It’s not that Ian hasn’t been alright. He gets up every morning, goes to work, eats three meals a day (even if it’s only a couple bites sometimes), and, most importantly, takes his pills. But things have been strained between them since Yevgeny left. Every conversation feels stilted and awkward. They’re both trying too hard to act like everything’s normal. It probably doesn’t help that Ian keeps catching him watching while he takes his pills. “Just taking a shower.”

“Fiona said—”

“What did Fiona say?” Ian interrupts, almost spooking Carl right out of his seat.

“Jesus, Ian. Why don’t you make any noise when you walk?”

Ian smirks at Carl and runs a hand through his wet hair. A drop trickles down his neck, and Mickey imagines licking it away before he can stop himself. The white t-shirt he’s wearing is damp and clinging to Ian’s body in the most excruciatingly perfect way. Mickey tries not to stare too openly with Carl there. It’s only been a few weeks since they last slept together, but apparently that’s all it takes for Mickey to regress back into a horny teenager.

“Military training,” is all Ian says. “Smells good,” he directs to Mickey.

“You hungry?”

“I could eat. What about you, Carl? Wanna stay for dinner?”

“Nah, I gotta get back home. I told Fi I’d watch Sasha for the night, so she and Debs can, like, have a girls night or whatever. I have no idea what they’re doing.”

“That’s nice of you.”

Carl scowls like he’s just been falsely accused of murdering someone. “Fiona’s been all stressed out lately with Frank falling off the wagon again and fucking up the house and Lip being away, so I said yeah. It’s not a big deal.” He hops down from the counter and claps Ian on the shoulder. “Glad you’re feeling better, though. I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, I’ll come by soon. Thanks, Carl.” When the front door clicks shut, Ian turns to him with a cocked eyebrow. “Did he seriously just haul himself all the way over here to check on me?”

“Think so,” Mickey chuckles. “He asked me some stuff about the GED, but nothing he couldn’t have just texted me about. I’m pretty sure he was just looking to see you.”

“Kid’s going soft in his old age.”

“Yeah, well, he ain’t the only one. I’m over here cookin’ pasta like an actual adult. Sit down, I’ll get the food.” Mickey bustles around the kitchen and then puts two full bowls down on the table along with their bag of parmesan cheese. “So you wanna—?” Whatever Mickey was going to ask dies on his tongue when he looks up and realizes Ian’s entire demeanor has changed. Tears are pooling in his red-rimmed eyes. He looks tired and deflated. “Shit, what’s wrong?”

Ian lets out shaky breath. “I don’t know. I just—every time we sit down now, I’m worried you’re gonna wanna finally talk about everything that happened.”

“Why’re you worried?”

“Because I feel so shitty about it. I scared our son. That’s not—fuck, that’s not acceptable. I know it’s not. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Ay, come on.” Mickey taps his knuckles under Ian’s chin until he lifts his eyes up from the floor. “Only wanted to talk to you about some kind of plan or something, you know? Something you can do if you ever feel like that again. You can talk to me, you know. If you feel like you ain’t gonna take your pills. I’m not gonna get mad. But I need you to talk to me about it.”

“I know. I—I’ll try.”

“Maybe I—maybe it’d be a good idea if I came in with you next time you see your doctor? I read sometimes couples do that, but I don’t know. ‘S up to you.”

Ian bites the inside of his lip, the telltale sign he’s not comfortable with something. It hurts when he doesn’t agree right away, but Mickey tries not to dwell on it. He’s pretty sure it’s embarrassment rather than trust that’s holding him back. “Yeah, um, maybe. That—yeah, that's a good idea. Thank you for being, you know, on board for that.”

“Whatever’s gonna help.”

“Has Yev talked to you about it at all?”

“He just asks if you’re feeling okay. Not any different with me on the phone than he is with you. You didn’t scar him for life or anything, so you can get that right outta your head. Look at our parents, right? We’re fuckin’ saints. Father and father of the year.”

Ian huffs out a laugh and then reaches forward, hands landing on Mickey’s hips. The press of his fingertips sends a not entirely appropriate jolt through Mickey’s body. It takes a shocking amount of effort to suppress the groan that wants to break free from deep in his chest. Mickey has been doing his best to give Ian his space while he adjusts to his new meds, but the urge to touch him grows stronger every day. “You’re pretty incredible, you know that?” Before he can answer, Ian tugs him closer until their lips meet. They kiss each other slowly, tentatively. Ian smiles warmly at him when they break apart and rests his forehead against Mickey’s. “So, about dinner.”

At that very moment, Ian’s stomach gurgles so loudly they both burst into laughter. It feels like the unease that’s been hovering over them finally breaks. “That’s what you get for turning me down when I offered to make you a sandwich at lunch.” Mickey sits at the kitchen table, but Ian doesn’t move to join him. “What?”

“Um, you wanna eat in the living room maybe?” Ian asks. “Watch a movie or something? Like the laziest date ever.”

“Lazy dates are my favorite dates,” Mickey says, grinning. “Yeah, man. Sounds fun. You pick the movie.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, ‘long as you don’t try to act all cultured again and put on something with subtitles.”

“That was good movie!”

“Good movies don’t involve _reading_.”

A few minutes into the Van Damme movie, they’re both on the same couch, but Mickey’s careful to leave space between them. As much as he wants to press himself against Ian and maybe shove his tongue down his throat instead of watching some movie they’ve both seen a thousand times, he knows it’s better if he lets Ian come to him first.

An hour into the Van Damme movie, Ian closes the space and holds Mickey’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Only one more chapter to go. :)


	21. Free - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he goes for his keys, he knocks over one of the few framed photographs he has in his apartment. It’s him, Ian, and Fiona sitting on the steps of the Gallagher house, their arms draped around each other’s shoulders. Ian can’t be more than seven in the photo. He’s covered in freckles with long, vibrantly red hair and a missing front tooth. None of them are looking at the camera. They’re smiling at each other, in their own little world together. They look happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter jumps forward in time again -- this time for three years.

**_Three years later..._ **

_January_

 

It is just beginning to snow when Lip walks on to the porch with an old, worn backpack slung over his shoulder. There’s already a light dusting covering the perfectly trimmed hedges that line the grounds. They are still as green and thick and uniform as they were when he first arrived, before another brutal Chicago winter had struck. He wonders if they’re fake.

The house is fake, so why shouldn’t the hedges be as well? It’s a beautiful house, painted a bright, inviting blue with a charming white trim. There’s a wraparound porch with rocking chairs and wicker furniture and large windows. From the outside, no one would know that most of those windows don’t actually open. No one would know that the staff inside don’t trust their beleaguered residents not to fling themselves from them and bloody up the perfect hedges.

The people driving by might miss the sign out front. They might assume a nice family lives in the house—a young, attractive, successful couple with two smiling kids, a boy and a girl. They don’t know the truth, because they’ve never been inside. They’ll probably never have to go inside. They’ll probably never be forced to sit in a circle and listen to a tired man sob about drunkenly crashing his car. They’ll probably never be forced to sit in a circle and listen to that same tired man confess that his wife had been in the passenger seat and that she had died slowly, that she had died in pain. They’ll probably never have to wonder about just how much they’re like that man, about just how close they’ve come to becoming him.

Fuck, he could use a drink. He can’t believe he had to come back to this place again. He wants to forget that man’s story. He wants to forget all of their stories almost as much as he wants to forget his own. He doesn’t want to admit he could have been any of those men. He doesn’t want to admit he’s probably all of them.

A car pulls up behind him. He’s still standing on the brick walkway, staring up at the pretty windows with their pretty white shudders and empty flower boxes, but he can hear it drive up and park. He knows who’s waiting for him without turning around.

A door opens and then closes. Footfalls crunch against the new snow.

“Shit, am I late? I thought—”

“Nope. You’re right on time.”

“Okay,” his brother says slowly. “Are you alright?”

_Breathe in. Breathe out._ He blinks back some of the tears threatening to escape his eyes and forces himself to smile. But when he finally faces Ian, he feels like he’s been sucker punched in the gut. There are snowflakes in his red hair and he’s smiling tentatively, hopefully at him. There’s always hope in his eyes when he picks Lip up from these places, no matter how many times Lip has let him down over the past few years.

Lip doesn’t offer an answer, and Ian doesn’t push for one. Instead, he wraps his arms around Lip and squeezes him tight. Lip feels exhausted, but he returns the embrace as best he can. It’s tempting to just collapse in Ian’s arms and let his brother carry him home. Ian would, if Lip asked him.

“You look good,” Ian tells him. “They have a gym in there or something?”

“Fuck off and stop lying,” Lip laughs, making sure to knock his shoulder into Ian’s as he brushes past him to the car. “I look like shit.”

“I’m serious!” Ian protests. “I mean it. You look good. Better.”

_Better_ really isn’t saying much, not if Ian’s going off the last time they saw each other. Lip rolls his eyes and slips into the passenger seat. It’s warm in Ian’s car. There’s music playing, a Christmas song he thought Ian hated.

“Cigarette?”

“You said you were cutting back on those.”

Ian shrugs. “I am but old habits and all that. Want one or not?" 

“Obviously.”

Ian smirks, taps the bottom of the carton, and hands one over to him with a quiet chuckle. “Just open a window. We’ve got Yev with us this week, and he doesn’t like the smell. Liter’s mixed in with all the change there,” Ian says, nodding toward the center console as he pulls away from the house. “Where d’you want to go?”

“Dunno. Don’t care. Anywhere but here.”

Ian’s eyes flit over to him and then back to the road. “Your place?”

“Nah, not yet.” An unwanted image of Debbie shaking him awake flashes across his mind. He wonders if there’s still a pool of vomit in the middle of his living room floor, right where he left it, or if his family has cleaned it up. He’s not sure which scenario would make him feel worse. “Just—I don’t know, just drive for a while. If that’s okay.”

“Sure, but we can’t go too far. Fiona’s got a dinner planned for later.”

“Jesus, of course she does.”

“Hey, don’t be an ass,” Ian chides, shoving at his shoulder. “She’s missed you. She’s making lasagna and garlic bread because it’s your favorite. But we can just hang out for a while, if you want. Don’t gotta head over there right away.”

Lip doesn’t say anything, but Ian seems to know what he wants anyways. They pull over by a nearby park and just sit for a while, silently passing a cigarette back and forth. It’s snowing harder now. They should head to Fiona’s house before they get trapped here and freeze to death, but Lip doesn’t want to leave. For the first time in a long time, he feels comfortable, almost relaxed. It’s easy to just sit quietly with his brother. It's easy to forget about all the shit he needs to start fixing now that he's back in the real world.

“So, uh, how’re you feeling?”

The silence breaks, and Lip finds himself tensing up again. It’s a simple question, but it’s not really what Ian wants to know. _Is it going to stick this time?_ That’s the real question, but Lip doesn’t know the answer. It probably won’t. Something shitty will happen, and he’ll pick up a bottle again. And then maybe he’ll pass out during a class or get into another bar brawl or piss on a cop’s car and end up right back in that blue house with the stupid white shutters.

“I’m fine,” Lip assures him. “Ready to get back to work.”

“Is that a good idea? Going back so soon?”

“I’m pretty fuckin’ brilliant, man, but I ain’t brilliant enough to take another month’s leave.” He leans out the window and watches as the cigarette smoke rises and disappears into the cold air. “And I _want_ to go back. I like being there.” He’s telling Ian the truth about that, at least. He does enjoy his job—researching and learning and discovering. Even teaching. Sometimes it’s the only thing that can make him happy. 

“Good. That’s good.” Ian snatches the cigarette from his hand and takes a long drag of it. “You wanna ditch dinner? We could go to that diner by your place instead. Get some burgers. Fiona’ll be pissed, but whatever. She’ll get over it." 

Lip wants to say yes, but he knows he can’t let Fiona down. He’s done enough of that already. “Don’t tempt me, man,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, let’s just get this thing over with.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner is brutally awkward. Everyone is acting so aggressively normal around him that they’re barely recognizable as his siblings. No one is drinking. Fiona always has at least a glass of wine with dinner, but tonight she has soda in her cup instead. Deb and Liam won't stop smiling at him like he's a child. Ian keeps clumsily trying to change the subject whenever the conversation veers anywhere near alcohol. The only one with any chill is Carl, who has been so focused on some book that he’s barely glanced Lip’s direction.

He hates this feeling. He hates that they walk on eggshells around him now, like he’s a bomb that might go off if they say the wrong thing. He doesn’t know how Ian dealt with this for so long. He never realized how frustrating it must have been for him with everyone thinking he’d snap and pull a Monica. But now that he’s the designated Frank of the Gallagher kids, he’s starting to get it.

“What’s with the hole in the wall?”

Fiona winces, which is never a good sign. The look should probably concern him, but he’s kind of relieved he’s not the only one fucking up in some way. At least he hasn’t punched any walls lately.

“Frank,” Carl answers, without looking up from his book.

“Jesus Christ,” Lip mutters. “What happened?”

“He was wasted,” Fiona explains. “He’s been wasted a lot lately, but I think he might’ve been on some drugs, too, this time. He was losin’ his fuckin’ mind. Kept accusing me and Ian of hiding Monica from him. Must’ve seen her walking around somewhere. He wanted us to give up her address, and we wouldn’t, and he just—” Her eyes dart quickly over to Ian and then back to Lip. “He was pissed.”

“That his blood on the fridge?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Fiona hisses. “I thought I got it all.” She pushes up from her chair, wets a cloth under the sink, and starts scrubbing furiously at the faint red spots.

“Let it go, Fiona,” Ian sighs. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t want blood my fuckin’ fridge, Ian,” Fiona snaps back.

“What? That your blood or somethin’?” Lip had mostly been joking, but Ian’s expression quickly turns serious. He sticks his chin out, like he’s ready for an argument. And then Lip finally notices it. The fading bruise on Ian’s jaw. The faint dark spots on his neck that almost look like fingertips if you squint. “Holy shit, that _is_ your blood. The fuck happened?”

“Forget it.”

The chair screeches against the floor as Ian stands up and takes off upstairs without another word. Lip looks to Deb, Carl, and Liam for assistance, but they’re all staring resolutely down at their plates. Fiona’s no help either, still scrubbing at a stain that definitely isn’t coming off.

 

* * *

 

He’s on the porch, watching the snow fall and sucking on his third cigarette of the night, when Mickey and Yevgeny appear under the streetlights. Yevgeny hugs him and then launches into a long-winded account of the movie he and Mickey were coming from. Lip has no idea who the superheroes he’s referring to are and no interest in learning, but it’s such a relief to start a conversation without having to explain how he’s _feeling_ that he lets Yevgeny go right on talking until he tires himself out.

“Alright, enough of that," Mickey eventually mutters. "Let’s go find Ian.”

The kid nods and then heads inside, but not before calling out a quick "Smoking kills!" over his shoulder. Mickey laughs and moves to follow him, but Lip reaches out and puts a hand on his arm. “Want a smoke?”

“Didn't you hear the kid? I'm trying to quit." 

“Married life has made you and Ian real boring, you know that?” Mickey huffs, and Lip grips his elbow tighter to prevent him from walking away. “Hang out for a sec. You can watch me smoke. Live vicariously through me.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. He shakes Lip’s hand away and then leans against the railing, staring Lip down. “You got somethin’ to say?”

“Maybe. Not gonna ask me how I’m feeling first?”

“Nope.”

Lip smirks, throws the butt of his cigarette down, and stubs it out with the heel of his sneaker. “Wanna tell me what my family’s not telling me about Frank?”

Mickey’s jaw clenches. He’s not looking at Lip anymore, but he can tell the guy’s pissed. It makes his stomach sink. “You see the hole in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, and Ian’s blood on the fridge.”

“That’s not coming off? Jesus.” Mickey thumbs at his lip and then reaches out his hand. “Fine. Give me a cigarette. Don't tell Yev.” As soon as Lip hands one over and lights it for him, he continues, “Your fuckin’ fuck of a father came at him outta nowhere. He was over was helping Fiona with something, and then Frank barrels in bombed out of his mind and demanding to know where Monica’s been living. Ian says he didn’t say shit, but Frank goes after him anyways. Got a few good punches in and then tried to strangle him. When I got here, Ian was covered in blood, had bruises all around his neck. That fuck is lucky he’d already taken off,” Mickey spits. “I’d have fuckin’ killed him.”

Lip’s hands curl into fists. He blinks and sees a bloody Ian sitting on the floor in front of him. He wants to punch something, someone. He wishes Mickey _had_ gotten there in time. He wishes Frank were dead in the ground. Even if Mickey had to go back to jail for it. “He didn’t hit back then?” he asks through clenched teeth. “Never hits back.”

“Not really.” Mickey shakes his head. “You know Ian.”

Yeah, Lip knows Ian. “I almost ran Frank over once. He got away, though. Always gets away.”

“Well, that’s a fuckin’ shame.”

Lip snorts and nods in agreement. “Yeah, it is.” He pulls out a fourth cigarette. The smoke filling his lungs almost distracts from how badly he wants a drink. “I’m a lot like Frank, I think.” The words spill out of his mouth before he can think to stop them. He’s thought about the similarities between him and Frank a lot, but he doesn’t usually admit it so openly, unless he’s framing it as a joke. But it’s already out there, to Mickey Milkovich of all people, so he keeps going. “He’s smart, you know. Might be hard to believe now, but he had good grades in high school. Great grades, even. Without trying. Think he was bored, so he started up with the drinking and fucking and whatever the fuck else and never looked back. He probably could’ve been something if he ever gave a shit. Remind you of anyone?”

He can feel Mickey staring at him but can’t find the courage to look up and meet his eyes. Rambling about one of his deepest fears to someone who thinks he’s a piece of shit isn’t his best idea, but he’s pretty sure he can count on his brother’s husband to be honest. He needs to know. He needs to know if people look at him and see his father. 

“That’s a load of shit.”

“What?”

“You really think you’re like that fuckhead?” Mickey asks. “Why? ‘Cos you’re a shitty drunk?” Lip shrugs and kicks his shoe against the floor. “Come on, man. You think Frank would’ve done what you did for Ian for anyone? When the fuck has Frank ever stuck around for his family? You’re an asshole, but you ain’t a Frank Gallagher-level asshole. Trust me.”

The smallest of smiles starts to tug at his lips. “Yeah?”

“Look, I got shit in common with my father too,” Mickey says. “But you gonna tell me I’m like Terry?”

“No. You’re not.”

“Right. Our fathers don’t mean nothin’.”

“You really think that?”

“Yeah, I think that. And I think they’d be doing us all a favor if they finally just fucked off and died already. Left us all in peace.”

Lip smiles and blows a cloud of smoke out in front of him. “Can’t argue with that.”

 

* * *

 

Two days after Lip returns home, Frank winds up in the hospital. Debbie is the one who delivers the news. She tells him that Fiona, Ian, Carl, and Liam have all refused to go with her, so he’s apparently the last to know. It wasn’t too long ago that Fiona would have called him first to talk everything through and map out a plan of action before breaking it to the others. He wonders if Fiona calls Ian for that sort of thing now. Ian with his nine to five job and husband and kid. Ian who is _stable, good, normal_. He’s not sure when they switched places, when he suddenly started to need Ian more than Ian needed him.

He doesn’t want to see Frank, but he agrees to go with Debbie anyways, if only to prove he can still be of some use to someone. He drives, and she sniffles the entire way there. Even with the radio on much too loud, he can still hear her. He wishes she’d make up her mind to cry or not to cry, because the in-between is maddening.

She makes up her mind the moment they enter the hospital room and see what remains of their father. The sob catches him off guard. It’s not just the volume but the genuine pain behind it that surprises him. “Jesus Christ, Debs. Can you not?” But she’s not listening to him. She rushes into the room and grasps the metal bar running along the edge of Frank’s bed.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Gallagher. I know this must be difficult for—”

“Where’d ya find him? In a dumpster or something? He smells like rotting shit,” Lip interrupts, holding the collar of his shirt over his nose. The doctor frowns at him. He’s probably not responding properly to seeing his father looking like a corpse—bruised and bloody and pale—and smelling like one too, but he’s too tired to make himself say the right things. Besides, last he checked, not giving a shit isn't a crime.

“Uh, I believe a police officer discovered him nearby. On the side of the highway. He was in bad shape when they—”

“Someone probably tossed him out. Realized they picked up the most annoying hitchhiker of all time. He gonna be alright?” The doctor is glaring at him now. He almost starts reciting the countless reasons Frank doesn’t deserve a shred of his sympathy but ultimately decides it’s not worth the effort. “Yes or fuckin’ no?”

“Yes,” the doctor says, eyes moving over to Debbie like she’d much rather be giving this information to her, “For now, at least.”

“And that means?” 

“He’ll recover from the injuries he sustained, but it looks like—”

“His liver, right? It going again?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry.” He waves the woman off, not needing or wanting to hear more. “Just don’t give him another one to waste.”

That comment doesn’t appear to sit well with her, but she must know it's the truth. He can’t imagine that new liver looks very new now that Frank’s off the wagon again. He already got a second chance he didn’t deserve. It’s his own fault he needed a new liver in the first place. His own fault for drowning all of his disappointment and boredom and wasted potential in a bottle. It’s his own fucking fault.

_His own fault._ The words echo in his mind, and Lip starts to feel dizzy.

“Hey, you alright?” Debbie asks, as the doctor stares at him curiously. “You look sick.”

“You saw him,” Lip snaps, motioning to Frank’s unmoving body. “Can we go now?”

“Lip, he’s not even—”

“I want to go. I don’t want to fuckin’ be here. I don’t—Christ, I don’t want to see this.”

Debbie’s eyes travel around his face and then she nods. “I’ll be back soon,” she tells the doctor. “Please call me if anything changes.”

 

* * *

 

Throwing up is infinitely worse when sober. That’s what Lip discovers when he gets home after dropping Debbie off. Visions of Frank’s body—violent bruises, scabbed over cuts, sunken cheeks, crusty eyes, loose skin hanging from sharp bones—torment him every time he blinks. Only a few years ago his father had been a new man. Sober and lively with bright blue eyes and a too-charming smile. It’s unsettling to think about how quickly that can change. How quickly all the life in someone’s body can waste away. That man in the hospital room wasn’t his ridiculous, drunk, deadbeat father. That man was a half-dead stranger.

The vomiting ends quickly, but the dry heaving that comes after is worse. His throat is on fire and his ribs ache by the time whatever had come over him finally passes. The cool water from the sink helps but his voice still sounds hoarse when he picks up the phone to call Fiona.

“How was it? Debbie won’t tell me anything.”

“Bad,” Lip says. “Thought he was dead when I walked in. Smells dead. Why won’t you go see him? Sick of hospitals?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” He hears her fiddling with something for a moment before she adds, “You didn’t see him go after Ian. If you did, you wouldn’t want to go either.”

“I’ve seen him go after Ian plenty. Sure as fuck wasn’t the first time.”

“It was the worst though. I think he actually wanted to kill him. I didn’t know that man, Lip. I didn’t fuckin’ know him. Debs didn’t see it either. She doesn’t get it. He’s gone. Any not-so-shitty part of him that was left is gone.”

“His liver ain’t lookin’ good. He might sober up—”

“No, he won’t,” she interjects. “He’s given up, for good this time. Fuck, I’m so sick of people letting me down. I’m sick of it. Why the fuck did he have to go and get sober again, huh? Why’d he have to go and make me almost not hate him? I thought—” Her voice breaks and then trembles, “Shit, I thought—no, fuck it. Ain’t doin’ shit for him anymore. Let him die alone like he fuckin’ deserves. I’m so sick of putting myself into people who don’t give anything back. I’m done.”

_I’m done._ There’s a note of finality in her tone that terrifies him. Nausea crashes over him again. She’s talking about Frank. The rational part of him knows she’s only talking about Frank. But as she speaks, he keeps thinking of himself and all the way he’s let her down lately. “Like me?” he asks softly. “Are you done with me?”

A pause. “What’d you say?”

“Are you done with me?” he repeats, louder.

He hangs up on her before she can answer. He hangs up on her before she can start feeding him some bullshit about how proud of him she is. She shouldn’t be proud of him. She should be pissed. The world handed him everything while it fucked over his siblings, and he threw it away. It’s not fair he still has the best job. It’s not fair he makes the most money. It’s not fair beautiful women still want to fuck him. It’s not fucking fair, and he knows it.

He dials the next number without thinking. He’s shocked he still has it memorized, after all this time. It rings and rings and then he hears her voice.

“Lip?”

He clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Hey, Mandy.”

“Um, hi? Is everything okay? Is Ian okay? You sound weird.”

He clears his throat a second time. “Yeah, he’s fine. I just—I don’t know, I just wanted to hear your voice, I guess."

The admission is met with silence. It stretches on for a long time, but she hasn’t hung up yet. He can still hear the faint sound of her breathing. “What’d you do, Lip? You fuck up?”

“Haven’t stopped fucking up in a while.” He runs a hand through his messy hair and realizes he’s sweating. “ _You_ always believed in me though. Even when I was fucking up. You thought I was going to do great things.”

Mandy sighs. “I still believe that.”

“I screwed it all up.”

“So what?” she challenges, voice rising enough that she’s almost shouting at him. “What’d you do that was so bad? I ran a girl over ‘cos I was jealous. Ian kidnapped a fuckin’ kid. Your sister went to prison and then broke her parole. Don’t even get me started on the shit Carl or my brother have pulled. What’d you do that was so shitty? Tell you what, whatever it was, get over it and move the fuck on.”

“I just—I know that. I _know_. I just wish I could stop thinking for a second.”

“That why you drink? To stop thinking?” Lip shrugs even though she can’t see him. “Answer me,” she demands. “Is that why you drink so much?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You drunk now?”

“No.”

“Good, keep it that way.”

Lip laughs, because fuck, if only it were that easy. “Do you think I’m like Frank?”

Mandy sucks in a breath. “Jesus, tell me you don’t really think that.” He doesn’t say anything, and she clucks her tongue. “You have choices, Lip. We all do. Make different choices than Frank and, _voila_ , you’re not fucking Frank. It took me a long time to realize it, but it’s really that fucking simple. Look at your fucked up parents’ choices and make different ones. You give a shit about people, Lip. Keep giving a shit, and you’ll never be your dad.”

Tears are burning at the corners of his eyes. “Sometimes he gave a shit. It was just never—it was never enough. I’m so sick of always letting people down. I let _you_ down. So many times.”

“Lip, I can’t—I—” The thought trails off, and Mandy sighs again. “Just make the right choices now, okay? I know you can do that. I know you.”

“Yeah, I think you probably do,” he laughs softly. “I really miss you sometimes, you know,” he adds, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. “I wish things could’ve been different.”

“Yeah, me too.” There’s a long pause and then, “Take care of yourself, Lip. Please?”

Lip opens his mouth to say something. He’s not sure what—maybe _thank you_ or _I’ll try_ or _please don’t go_ —but she doesn’t give him the chance. The phone beeps, and he pulls it away from his ear to see she’s gone. He drops the phone on the counter and watches as it nearly bounces into the sink. It starts ringing again a second later. He knows it’s Fiona, but he ignores it.

It’s getting late, but the bar down the street is still serving. He would have to wade through a sea of college students, but it might be worth the hassle, just to have a cold beer in his hands. Maybe he could even pick a girl up, bring her home. At least it’d be something to do.

As he goes for his keys, he knocks over one of the few framed photographs he has in his apartment. It’s him, Ian, and Fiona sitting on the steps of the Gallagher house, their arms draped around each other’s shoulders. Ian can’t be more than seven in the photo. He’s covered in freckles with long, vibrantly red hair and a missing front tooth. None of them are looking at the camera. They’re smiling at each other, in their own little world together. They look happy.

“Damn it.”

He fixes the picture, chucks his keys across the room, and pours himself a glass of water.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_February_

 

“Sean asked me to marry him again.”

V looks up from her coffee with wide eyes. “What’d you just say?”

“He asked last night. At dinner.”

“Holy shit,” V breathes. “He asked you to marry him on _Valentine’s Day_? Seriously? What kind of cheesy, fifth grade bullshit is that? If he hid the ring in a fuckin’ dessert, I might never be able to look at him again.”

Fiona snorts. “Hey, Kev asked you to marry him when he was trashed. And already married.”

“Fair point.” Her best friend sets down her coffee and motions for Fiona to sit next to her on the couch. “So, what’d you say? Judging by those bags under your eyes, you either said no and felt like shit all night, or said yes and fucked all night.”

“It’s the less fun one.”

“Jesus, of course it is. Why, Fiona?” V whines. “You said you were happy! You love him, don’t you?” Fiona starts to shrug but then nods instead. If she can’t be honest with V then there’s no hope left for her. “Then why say no? _Again_.”

“I didn’t _technically_ say no,” Fiona sighs. “I said I needed time to think it over.”

“God, that’s even worse." 

Fiona smacks her arm with the back of her hand. “Shut up. No, it isn’t.” V eyes her, looking more than a little skeptical about that. “It’s not him. I just don’t—I don’t know that I want to get married again,” she finally admits. “The first time sucked ass. And I mean, a bunch of shit comes with that, right? Kids and stuff?”

No more kids. That’s a decision she made a long time ago and one she still feels invariably certain of. She’s still raising Liam and Sasha. She’s helping Debbie pay for college. It’s not realistic to add another kid to the world, not when she can barely afford to keep the ones she’s already looking after fed and clothed. It’s not realistic, and it’s not what she wants. What she wants is a moment when she’s not responsible for another human being. What she wants is a moment to breathe.

No more kids. It’s a hard rule for her, but somehow it’s never come up. Maybe she was afraid it’d be a deal breaker for him if she ever admitted it. She’s still young. She should want a family of her own. But she can’t picture herself with a rounded stomach. Can’t picture herself with yet another child, even if this one would be her own.

“What if he wants that?”

“And you’re sure you don’t want that?”

“Yes,” Fiona answers without hesitation. “Yeah, I’m sure. Is that wrong?”

V shakes her head. “Girl, of course not. The world would be a better place if more people took a fuckin’ moment and thought about whether they _really_ wanted kids, you know? They’re a shit ton of work and money. God, so much money. If you don’t want ‘em, you don’t want ‘em. Lord knows you’ve already raised enough of them for one lifetime.”

The knots in Fiona’s stomach begin to loosen. She can even feel herself starting to smile. Maybe she just needed someone else to tell her it was okay to feel this way. “But what if he does?”

“Then maybe it doesn’t work out,” V says, like it’s that easy. Like it won’t devastate Fiona to watch another relationship crash and burn. “It ain’t just about lovin’ someone. Sometimes it’s about wanting the same things. But if you don’t, there are other people out there. Other people who want what you want.”

Fiona knows she’s right, even if her heart is breaking at the idea of letting Sean go for a second time. She can’t help but think about what a waste this has all been—cautiously and carefully putting themselves back together, only to fall apart once again because of the same stupid question.

 

* * *

 

It’s raining out. The sweatshirt she’s wearing doesn’t even have a hood. By the time she reaches his house, she’s sure she looks like a drenched raccoon with mascara running down her cheeks, but she still knocks on the door—once, twice, and then more frantically. A ridiculous part of her is happy that it’s pouring. It makes her feel like she’s in a movie. Like Sean will see her and step out into the rain too and all their problems will disappear the moment they kiss.

“Fiona?” Sean doesn’t step out into the rain. Instead, he frowns and pulls her inside. “What are you doing here?”

“Carl has my car, but I just—I had to see you.”

Sean reaches forward and unzips her soaked sweatshirt, tugging it away from her. “You could’ve called, you know. I would’ve come over.” After throwing the sweatshirt down on his table, he shrugs off and hands her the flannel he’s wearing.

“I, uh, I wasn’t sure you’d answer.”

He crosses his arms and leans back against the wall. “And why wouldn’t I answer?”

“You know why, asshole.”

He smirks. “You should take those jeans off, too. You’re gonna wreck my carpet.”

“That carpet's already wrecked. You just tryin' to get in my pants?" 

“No,” he sighs, shaking his head. The expression on his face is serious, almost solemn. Sex has always been a reliable diversion when Fiona didn’t want to deal with something, but she knows it won’t work this time. “Why’d you come here, Fiona?”

“I don’t want kids.” And there it is. Blurted out without grace or preamble. “And I thought that if we, you know, got married, that maybe you’d expect that from me. Want that. Kids, I mean. And I just don’t want any more fuckin’ kids. And you might think that’s selfish or stupid or whatever, but I’m done. I accepted a long time ago that wouldn’t be my life, and I’m fine with it. But if you want something else, something more normal, I guess, then I—then I think we need to stop this. For good.”

Sean regards her quietly. It feels like minutes drag by before he finally says something, though it’s likely only seconds. “So, that’s why you said no this time? This isn’t about your family again?”

“I didn’t say no!” Fiona exclaims. “I said I needed to _think_. And I’m pretty sure if you don’t know my batshit family comes as part of the deal by now, you’re an idiot.”

A smile spreads across his lips. A real smile—wide and beautiful. It’s so good to see it, so good to feel it directed at her. It feels like the sun shining down on her. “When did I ever say I wanted more kids?” he asks. “I’m still trying to fix things with the first one. Don’t need to screw up another one.”

It’s kind of a dark sentiment, but she can’t help laughing. It bursts out of her, louder than expected. She feels the same way sometimes. A new kid just means new ways she can fuck things up. She takes a cautious step toward him. He doesn’t move, so she takes another step and another until her hands are splayed over his chest.

“I just want _you_ ,” he tells her. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

She rests her head on his shoulder. “I love you, you know.”

Sean’s hands grasp her hips. “I know.”

“And I want to marry you.”

“Is that right?” he drawls. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She pulls back and kisses him, hopping up on to her toes. It’s slower than she’s used to, but she puts all of herself into it. She hopes he can tell just how _right_ she feels being with him. “Fiona Pierce,” she whispers against his lips. “I kind of like the sound of that.”

She begins to back away, but he holds her closer. “What do you want, Fiona?”

That used to be an impossible question for her. It was hard to let herself want anything after watching her dreams get crushed so many times. But she’s older now, and she thinks she finally knows. “I want to be happy,” she says softly. “I want to be free. With you.”

 

* * *

 

“Liam fucking Gallagher! Get the fuck down here!” The phone rings the moment her words cease echoing off the walls. She grits her teeth, too keen on telling Liam off for his latest fuck up to talk to anyone else, but she answers anyways. “ _What_?”

“Okay. So, you’re obviously not in a great mood.”

“I don’t have time to talk, Ian,” she snaps, as she marches up toward Liam’s room, slamming her feet down on each stair. “I have to track down your fucking brother and murder the little shit for—”

“Liam’s at my place.”

She stops in the middle of the bedroom. The beds are all empty. Only one actually belongs to someone these days. Chuckie left with Sammi when she was released from prison, and the others have moved on to their own lives. Only Liam, Sasha, and Carl are still with her. Sometimes the house feels too quiet, too still. Today is one of those days. “Why the fuck is he there?”

“He was scared you were gonna lose your shit on him.”

“He should be scared!” Fiona shouts. She can almost hear Ian flinch away from the phone, but she’s too angry to feel guilty about it. “That fucker got caught getting high in the bathroom. You know how much trouble he could’ve gotten in? He’s lucky he’s just suspended! The principal only cut him a break because he’s got decent grades.”

“Come on, Lip and I used to get caught—”

“I don’t care about what you and Lip used to do! That’s not the fucking point, Ian!”

“Jesus, okay, okay,” Ian says. “Look, he feels bad. He’s embarrassed. And I’m sure he’s sorry—”

“If he’s sorry, he can come back home and tell me that himself,” she spits, anger building with each second she stares down at his empty, unmade bed. It’s always unmade these days, but she never gives him shit for it. She never pushes him too hard, because she’s not sure if she's allowed to, and this is what she gets. “You tell him he can’t just run away from his problems.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Ian asks, a hard edge creeping in to his voice.

“Exactly what it sounds like. What good did runnin’ off ever do for any of us? You tell him that ain’t the way to solve his shit. You tell him to come home.”

There’s a pause. Fiona worries Ian might have hung up on her until she hears him let out a long breath. “I feel weird yelling at him,” he says. “I’m not his dad, Fi.”

“And I’m not his mom, am I? Or your mom, for that matter,” she retorts. “But who else is gonna keep the kid out of trouble if not us? Monica? Frank? Now you know how I feel _all_ the fuckin’ time.”

Another pause. Another loud exhale. “I’m sorry, Fi. I really am.”

_Shit._ The fury that had been pulsing through her body only a moment ago starts to melt away. Ian sounds sad and genuinely remorseful, like he’s put her out somehow. He sounded the same way when he first told her he was gay and when he came home from the hospital that last time, and it makes her heart ache to hear it. “I didn’t mean that the way it probably sounded,” she tells him, more calmly. “You guys were there for me just as much as I was there for you.”

“I'm not sure about that." Fiona opens her mouth to argue, but Ian cuts her off. "How ‘bout I drop Liam off in the morning? I’ll try talking to him about everything tonight. I’m not sure he’ll listen to me, but I’ll try.”

“He looks up to you. He’ll listen.”

Ian snorts out a bitter laugh. “Why the hell would he look up to me?" 

“I check that kid’s browser history more than I care to admit, and he’s done a ton of research on bipolar. I mean, when he’s not searching for weird porn. He knows how strong you are, Ian. He knows what you’ve overcome. Trust me, he gets it.”

Ian’s voice trembles slightly when he speaks again. “Oh. I—yeah, I guess I’ve never really talked to him about it, have I? Don’t blame him for looking it up.”

“Well, you can talk to him tonight,” she says, brushing back her hair and walking out of the room. She clicks the door shut behind her and leans against it. “I really want him to turn out okay. After what—after what—” She chokes on the words and has to take a deep breath before finishing her thought. “After what I did to him, I just want him to be okay, you know? I want him to be good. I don’t want him to go through the same shit we did.”

“I know. He won’t. He’s a good kid,” Ian assures her. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure. Love you, Fi.”

“You too, Ian.”

It’s not until she’s off the phone that she realizes her screaming hasn’t caught anyone else’s attention. Sasha isn’t crying. Carl hasn't emerged from his room to stare at her like she’s gone insane. When she goes back to the kitchen, she finds a note stuck to the fridge from Carl saying he and Sasha went out for ice cream. So she’s the only one home. It blows her mind for a second. Even with fewer people living here than ever before, she still can’t remember the last time she had the house to herself.

She considers calling Sean. His shift at the diner should be ending soon. It might be nice to go at it without having to worry about keeping the volume down or scarring Sasha for life. And then she could subject him to another round of wedding planning. Or maybe she could walk down to the Alibi and throw back a couple of drinks with Kev and V like the old days.

As soon as she starts to slip her jacket on, she knows neither of those things is what she really wants to do. For once, the quiet doesn't really bother her. It will be a long time until the house is like this again, and she has to take advantage of it. She wanders into the living room and puts her favorite album into the old, dusty stereo—the same album Frank used to play all the time when she was a kid. Back then, she used to fall asleep to the quick beat and the man crooning over it and Frank's friends laughing downstairs. And sometimes Frank would put it on during the day and dance with her, letting her balance on his toes as they moved around the room. But today, today she dances by herself. Dances and dances until she’s out of breath and grinning like a fool.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_May_

 

After the third round of knocking, Mickey answers the front door with a scowl. “I was sleeping, asswipe,” he growls, even as he steps aside to let Carl inside. “The fuck you want?” 

“Smells good in here,” Carl comments. “You sleep-cooking now or something?”

“Nah, it’s the fuckin’ slow cooker thing Svetlana gave us for Christmas. I’m trying to make this, like, taco soup thing that Ian found on the internet.”

“Jesus, that’s so _domestic_ ,” Carl teases. “You guys are gross.”

Mickey whacks him on the back of the head. It’s too soft to really hurt, but it sends him stumbling forward a little. “You’re a smartass, you know that? Don't forget I can still kick your ass.”

"Oh yeah, you sure about that, old man?" Mickey holds up his middle finger, as he walks into the kitchen to check on what Carl guesses must be a 'slower cooker.' Carl follows after him and unloads his shitty laptop on to the table. “I need you to look at something for me quick.”

“This better not be like that time you thought you had herpes.”

“Jesus, no. I thought we agreed to never talk about that again?” Carl groans. “No, man. It’s something on the computer.”

“And what's that?” Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Better make it quick. I wanna actually sleep before I gotta head to the bar.”

“I just—” Carl huffs out a frustrated breath. “I just need you to look at my grades for me. They got posted yesterday, and I just—I don’t wanna fuckin’ look, alright? It won’t matter how good my apprenticeship is going if I can’t pass this shit.” When Mickey starts laughing at that, Carl feels his cheeks heating up. Fuck, he hopes he’s not actually blushing. Only pussies blush. “Shut the fuck up, and just look, would you? I’m already logged into the system. You just gotta click on grades.”

“So this was the last round of classes, huh?”

“Yeah,” Carl answers, shrugging. He’s been taking online classes and working alongside a local electrician for the last year. When a guy at the university offered to help him out and told him he’d make a hell of a lot more doing electrical work than mopping up vomit, he had jumped at the chance. He had a kid to think about now. A kid who might actually want to do shit like travel or go to college someday. “Just look, would ya?”

“Fine.” Mickey sits down, and Carl pushes the laptop over to him. After a couple of clicks, Mickey stares at the screen and frowns. The longer he remains silent, the more nauseous Carl feels. Could he have failed? He had definitely struggled at first, but he thought by the final exam he had started to get the hang of it. _Shit, shit, shit._ Why wasn’t Mickey saying anything?

“I’m sorry, kid,” he finally says. “You failed.”

The news paralyzes him for a moment. He can’t move, can’t think, can’t even breathe. It’s not possible. It can't be possible. The instructor said if he could just do well on the final exam, he’d be okay. He studied for weeks. He barely even looked up from his fucking books. “Goddamnit. Fuck. I'm fucked.”

Mickey nudges the laptop back, but Carl doesn’t want to look. “See for yourself,” he says. “It’s all right there.”

Carl squeezes his eyes shut at first, but he knows he can’t stay like that forever. He breathes in and then out through his nose before opening them again. It takes nearly a minute for the words in front of him to finally sink in, but the moment they do, he’s out of his seat and slamming his fists into Mickey’s chest. “What the _fuck_ , dude? I fucking passed!”

It’s in between loud laughs that Mickey manages to gasp out, “That’s what you get for being such a pussy about it,” and Carl smacks him in the chest again.

Mickey shoots up and quickly pulls him into a headlock. “You’re a douchebag, you know that?” Carl grunts. “Get the fuck off me.”

“So I’ve been told,” Mickey chuckles, ruffling up Carl’s hair before letting him ago. There’s an amused grin on his lips when Carl straightens himself back out. “Don’t be pissy. You should’ve known better than to ask me.”

Yeah, maybe he should’ve asked Debbie to look instead. Or Fiona, considering how thrilled she’s going to be when she finds out. Neither of them would’ve fucked with him. But, the truth is, he wanted Mickey to know first if he actually managed to pull this off. Without Mickey, he’s not sure he even would’ve passed his GED. He’s not sure he ever would’ve thought to try.

He kind of wants to thank Mickey for that. Instead he just says, “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re a dork.” Mickey claps him on the shoulder. “But you did great. This is a big deal.”

Carl feels his cheeks start to heat up again. “Yeah, alright. Stop being weird.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Fiona practically shoves him out the front door and tells him to have fun. He looks around, beyond confused, until he notices Ian’s car parked out front and Lip standing outside of it, waving him over. “What’s going on?”

“We’re taking you out to celebrate you becoming a responsible fuckin’ adult on us,” Lip says, opening the front passenger door like he’s a chauffeur. “Get in.”

That night, Carl eats lobster like he can afford to. And he excitedly knocks back the beers his brothers keep buying him. They laugh and fuck with the waiter and eat until they feel sick. Ian and Lip both pull him into hugs by the end of the night and tell him they’re proud of him, and Carl acts like he doesn’t care even if he feels so ridiculously happy he could burst from it.

It’s the most fun he’s had in a long time, and he can’t stop smiling like an idiot as Lip drives them home. Lip and Ian have always been the closest of his siblings. They’re a complicated pair, fighting bitterly and then picking each other back up, but Carl always envied them. He wants that same closeness, the trust that comes with knowing someone that well. Maybe that’s why he calls out for Lip to pull over when they pass by a familiar apartment complex.

“What? You gonna be sick?”

“No, not gon’ be sick,” Carl says, his words slurring together slightly. He’s approaching wasted, but he’s pretty sure he’s not there quite yet. “Just wanna show you guys something.”

Ian and Lip look apprehensive, but they follow him. He leads them over to the building he had taken a tour of yesterday. The outside is pretty dire—dirty, somber-looking concrete with some boarded-up windows. The inside isn’t much better, but it’s all his current salary can handle with the hipsters coming in and insisting on making everything safer.

“You know, I think I fucked a girl who lived here once,” Lip muses, squinting up at the higher floors. “Why’re we here again?”

“Thought about renting a place, here,” he admits. “I’ll be gettin’ a raise soon. Figured I can’t live off Fi forever. ‘Specially with her getting married soon and all.”

They both look surprised. Lip regards him with wide eyes, and Ian blurts out, “Really?”

“I dunno.” Carl looks down at his feet, worried they’re reacting this way because they don't think he can do it. Because they don't think he can take care of himself. “Just thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

Ian looks back at the building and winces. “And, uh, would you take Sasha with you?”

“Yeah,” Carl says. “I couldn’t, you know, _not_.” It wasn’t all that long ago he’d been pretty content to mostly ignore Sasha. For a while, he even considered that it might be better if they just convinced the kid Fiona and Sean were her parents rather than two errant, irresponsible kids that couldn’t get their collective shit together. But, lately, he’s felt different. Lately, he’s found he might actually want to be her father, and that he might want her to want that too. “But she seems so happy at the house, y’know? Doesn’t seem fair to take her out of there to live in this shithole just to prove I can do it. I don’t know.”

“Fiona likes having you around, you know.”

Carl rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right. I saddled her with another kid. She should be able to have her own life too, without all our shit.”

“I’m serious,” Ian insists. “You help around the house now, pitch in on the bills. And she loves Sasha. Don’t move out ‘cos you feel like you have to.”

“You don’t think I can do it, do you?”

Lip smirks and drapes his arm around Carl’s shoulders. “When’d you get so insecure, huh? That’s not what Ian’s saying. ‘Course you can do it. You can do anything you want.”

He says it casually, like it’s nothing, or like it should have been obvious, but it knocks the wind right out of Carl. So much so that, for a moment, it’s difficult to catch his breath. It’s difficult to keep himself from crying too, but that just might be the beer.

 

* * *

 

Frank is passed out on the back porch when he gets home. Carl has discovered him in this exact spot plenty of times before, but he’s never looked this bad. Even in the dark, he can make out how pale his father’s skin looks. He can make out the dark bruises littering his skin and the deep cut across his forehead. The smell radiating from him can only be described as death—strong and stale and sickening. It goes against all of his instincts, but he reaches for his phone to call the cops. The last thing he wants is for his daughter to wander out here and find her grandfather’s corpse in the morning.

The moment he unlocks his phone, Frank’s eyes shoot open. They look sort of yellow, but Carl thinks it must just be the faint light coming out from the kitchen windows messing with him. “Son,” he croaks, pushing his elbow into the ground to prop himself up. “Was hoping you’d come home.”

“You talk to Fiona?”

Frank frowns and then looks around him. “Not sure I ever made it to the door to knock,” he says. “Got tired. Fuck, I’m tired. Don’t think I’ve ever felt like this.”

“Oh yeah? Not even when you were dying the first time?” Carl catches himself thinking of those days a lot now. He wakes up and tries to pretend he hadn’t been dreaming of shaving Frank’s head or funneling alcohol into his system or watching over him while he slept, just to make sure he didn’t die while Carl wasn’t paying attention.

“No, son. Not even then.”

He’s thought about trying to find his father. Sometimes he hears whispers about what Frank’s been up to when he’s at the Alibi or when he’s walking back from the El after work. He never ends up actually doing it though. He doesn’t think he has it in him to go through all of that again. Not when he already knows how the story will end.

“What do you want, Frank?” The night had been going so well up until now, up until Frank had to show up at their door again to fuck everything up.

Carl takes a step back, as Frank hauls himself off the floor and leans his body on the railing. “Not even gonna invite me in then? Into my own fuckin’ house?”

“It was never your house.”

Frank stares at him with narrowed eyes. “No respect. You kids never did have any respect for me. Bunch of ungrateful little shits. My own flesh and blood, turning against me.”

_What did you do to ever deserve our respect?_ “What do you want, Frank?” Carl asks again, just wanting this to be over. “You can’t stay here.”

“Don’t want to stay here,” he snaps. “Got better places to be. I just need a little money.”

_Of course._ It always comes down to money. The only time Frank ever visited him in prison was to ask for money. The only time Frank ever seemed proud of him was when he was deep enough in the game to start throwing Ben Franklins around like they were nothing. He never gave a shit that his son would almost definitely die young because of it. He never gave a shit about the things Carl needed to do and see to get that money. All he cared about was taking. Always taking.

There’s only a couple of twenties in his wallet. He throws them at Frank’s feet and then tosses the quarters he has down there too. “Don’t come back here, Frank.” He can’t read the look on his father’s face when he says that, and he doesn’t have the patience to try. So he walks away and locks the door behind him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_June_

 

There’s so much noise. A constant, shrill beeping and someone screaming nearby and people yelling and yelling. But all of that fades into the background when he sees her. When he sees his Bianca standing at the side of his bed.

“How are you feeling today, Mr. Gallagher?”

He tries to laugh but a wet cough escapes instead. He’s not sure why she keeps calling him _Mr. Gallagher_ , but it’s starting to grow on him. Maybe it’s some new kind of roleplay she wants to try out. “I dunno. How ‘bout a kiss? Might make me feel better.”

There’s a frown on her face, and she doesn’t lean forward to press her lips to his. He wishes he could reach out for her. He wants to wrap his hand around the back of her neck and pull her against him like he used to. But he feels stuck. Almost like someone has weighed down his limbs with concrete. He can’t move and that fact starts to send him into a panic until Bianca brushes a hand through his hair and then gently down his cheek. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gallagher.”

She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and all he wants is to keep looking at her. The lights are bright, though, blindingly so. Eventually, it becomes too painful to keep staring at her, so he lets them fall shut, confident she won’t leave him. His head is still pounding though. There’s a constant ache behind his eyes. It’s relentless and brutal, and he knows something’s wrong. “What happened to me?”

“You drank too much.”

He lets out another wet laugh-cough hybrid, because isn’t that always the answer. “I’ll stop,” he promises her. “I’ll stop for you.”

“It’s too late for that.” She combs her fingers through his hair again, and he lets himself lean into the touch. He can’t remember much anymore, but he feels like no one’s touched him that way in a long time. “But it’s okay. We’ll see each other again soon.”

She starts to back away from the bed, and the panic rises up within him again like bile in his throat. “No!” he shouts, trying desperately to move. “No, no, you can’t leave! You can't leave me!”

There’s suddenly a burning pain radiating from his wrists. Something’s tightening around them, but the edges of his vision are nothing but darkness, so he can’t see what. “Who’s there?” he calls out. “What do you want?”

“Calm down, Mr. Gallagher.” The voice is too raspy to belong to Bianca. Too old. He blinks his eyes open again and sees an older woman standing over him, pressing down on his shoulders. She’s ugly with dark, bushy eyebrows and some kind of growth dangling off of her chin. He wants to recoil from her, but he still can’t move. “Did you hear anything I said?” the hideous woman asks him. She’s wearing a white coat. It looks like the one Bianca was wearing when they first met. “Mr. Gallagher, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re dying. You might—you might only have a few days left. I’ve tried calling your children, but I can’t seem to get—”

“Call Bianca.”

The woman stops talking and furrows her brow. “Who’s Bianca? Mr. Gallagher? Who’s Bianca?”

_The woman I love._ He’s not sure if he's actually managed to say the words or if he just thought them, but he’s already spoken too much for one day. His throat is protesting the effort, so he gives up and allows his eyes to close again.

“Mr. Gallagher?”

He’s not sure how long she goes on calling his name. Doesn’t really care. He’s too tired. He just needs to sleep. A little sleep will fix everything. In the morning, he’ll wake up and he’ll find Bianca and he’ll leave this place with all its godforsaken noise.

 

* * *

 

The morning comes, and he’s still tired. He’s not sure how long he slept. Hell, he’s not even sure if it’s actually morning. The lights are still just as bright, shining down on him and stabbing into his skull. “Turn them off,” he groans. “Just turn them off.”

“Turn what off?”

The voice is familiar. Too familiar. It’s _his_ voice, he thinks, before it sounded so hoarse and old. He’s not surprised to turn his head and find that the voice _does_ belong to him, after all. Except he’s young again, shaggy-haired and blue-eyed and lean. The girls couldn’t resist him when he looked like this, even when half the shit coming out his mouth was nonsense.

“How did you get here?”

Young Frank looks confused. Maybe he doesn’t realize who he’s meeting. Maybe Frank has found a way to glimpse into the past. “A car?”

“You’ll never really have your own car, but you got a great life ahead of you,” Frank tells him. It takes all the strength he has to smile, but it’s worth it. Because he wants to smile. Because he’s happy. Perhaps he should envy this boy’s youth or wish to go back to that time himself, but he just feels excited for him. Excited for the future. “You’ll fuck girls and drink until you’re invincible. And you’ll meet her. You’ll meet Monica. Lovely, lovely Monica.”

The expression on the boy’s face changes. It twists into something terrible. Something angry and mean. “You lived a meaningless life,” he spits out. “Did you ever care? Did we ever matter to you?" 

“What’re you—what—?”

“It’s Lip, Frank,” the blue-eyed boy interrupts. “Your fucking son. You remember me?”

Lip. He knows that name. Was Lip the gay one? No, the smart one, maybe. The one who acts like the world is out to get him. “Lip,” he says, trying to remember, but the boy is gone before he can.

Monica is at his side now. Her hair is darker than it had been the last time he saw her. Dark like the first time they kissed. They fucked on a picnic table that night. She bit down on his lip so hard he bled. That was the moment he knew he loved her. “He’s just upset, Frank,” she coos gently. “He doesn’t understand.”

“I’ve missed you, Monny. Where have you been?”

“I’ve missed you, too.” She doesn’t tell him where she ran off to this time. She never does, but he’s always liked her better as a mystery. Unpredictable and unobtainable and perfect. A beautiful mess he could never let go of, not entirely. “I love you.”

“Then why didn’t you stay? You never stay.”

“I’ll stay this time,” she vows. “I’ll stay until it’s over.”

“Until what’s over?”

“Close your eyes, Frank. Just close your eyes.”

He does as he’s told. It feels good to have someone tell him what to do. To not have to think. The world goes dark, and he feels like he’s floating. The concrete weighing him down is gone, and he’s finally able to rise from the bed. It’s nice at first, until it doesn’t stop. He keeps rising and rising until he’s sure he’s about to hit the ceiling.

“Hold me down,” he pleads. “Monica, hold me down.”

“Just let go, Frank.” The voice doesn’t sound right. Doesn’t sound like his Monica anymore. It reminds him of someone else. It reminds him of a loud, freckled girl with bushy hair and dark eyes. What was her name? God, what was her name?

“Debbie.”

“Yeah, I’m here, Frank.” She’s crying. He knows that even if he can’t see her. “I’m going to stay with you.”

The voice sounds like Monica's again, and he feels himself begin to relax. He feels himself begin to let go. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“You won’t. Just trust me, Frank. It will all be okay.”

He believes her. They might have hated each other sometimes, fought with and tore at each other. Leaving and coming back over and over again. But she loves him, and he loves her. That’s something he’s always known.

Her hand wraps around his. It’s soft, so soft. He wants to squeeze back. He wants to hold on to her and never let go. But he’s so tired, and he can’t hold on any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you might have noticed this went from 21 chapters to 22 chapters. The last chapter ended up being _much_ longer than I planned on it being (oops), but I still wanted to check in with everyone, so I decided to split it up into two parts. The good news is the second part is basically finished already, I just need to go over it, so it should be up by next Sunday at the latest.
> 
> Next (and last!) chapter will have Debbie's, Mandy's, Ian's, and Mickey's POVs and will be more focused on Ian and Mickey's relationship.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! :)


	22. Free - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The light turns green.

_July_

 

It’s too hot out to wear black. Even with the fans Fiona has strategically propped up everywhere, it still feels like the house is trying to cook her. So Debbie slips on her breeziest white dress and throws her hair up into a messy bun just to get the sweaty mess of frizzy curls away from her neck. She spins in front of the long mirror, the skirt dancing around her. She doesn’t exactly look appropriate for a funeral, but she doubts anyone is going to care. Frank certainly wouldn’t.

When her phone rings, she quickly plucks it out of her purse in case it’s Ian. He was supposed to be here an hour ago to help her carry food over to the Alibi. But it’s not Ian. It’s Greg calling. Again. It’s his fourth attempt to reach her just that morning. Since he clearly can’t take a hint, she doesn’t feel bad when she switches her phone over to silent.

The phone lights up again not even a minute later. There’s no sound, but she can’t help but look down at the screen anyways. The sight of her boyfriend’s name makes her sigh, and she turns the damned thing over. Apparently he’s not even bothering to leave voicemails in between calls anymore. She can’t decide if that’s sweet or pathetic.

He had wanted to come with her. To be supportive or something like that. But Debbie wasn’t about to introduce him to her crazy family at Frank’s funeral. They’re not up to meeting a stranger right now. They’re not up to acting like a family should when it’s patriarch dies. Most likely they’ll speed through the actual funeral part of things and then get wasted at the Alibi while complaining about what an extraordinary douchebag Frank Gallagher was their entire lives. This isn’t the time to throw an outsider into the madness. Especially one she kind of wants to keep around.

Though, even if it was just someone’s birthday or a regular fucking day, Debbie’s pretty sure she still wouldn’t have invited him to come along. She’s not sure she’s ready for him to see where she comes from. Sure, she’s told him about being poor, but no one ever really seems to get what that means until they see it. Until they walk past the graffiti and up the creaking steps and hear the neighborhood at night—the gunshots and the yelling and the screeching tires.

“Hey! You almost ready, Debs? We gotta get goin' soon,” Fiona calls from the outside of her door. “Ian’s still not here, but I’ll help ya carry the stuff over. Don’t wanna be late for this shitfest.”

Debbie looks at herself in the mirror one more time, smoothing her hands over the flowy fabric of her dress. She smacks her lips together, making sure the light pink lipstick she picked for the day still looks even. She squints at herself and decides she actually looks pretty damn good, considering how miserable she feels. “Okay!” she calls back. “You can just come in, you know!”

Fiona pushes the door open slowly, like she’s worried Debbie’s going to change her mind and snap at her to get out. Her hesitance makes Debbie feel like shit, but she can’t blame her. Debbie spent a lot of time fighting for what little space she could get, and Fiona was the one usually on the receiving end of those frustrated hissy fits. But now that she’s only got one roommate who she barely sees, she kind of misses the Gallagher chaos.

“You look great, Debs.”

There are shadows under Fiona’s eyes. They’re dark like the charcoal dress she’s wearing. Debbie doubts she’s been crying, but putting all of this together hasn’t been easy on her without Lip or Ian’s help. Lip didn’t even want a funeral. _Just throw the bastard in the ground._ But Debbie couldn’t bear that, no matter how bad it got in the end. And neither could Fiona.

“Somethin’ on your mind?”

Her phone is ringing again. It’s still facing down, but she can tell by the halo of light surrounding it. “Sort of,” Debbie admits. “Was dating Jimmy weird for you?”

“ _Jimmy_? Jimmy Lishman?” Debbie nods. “God, I don’t know. I haven’t thought about him in years. Why’re you askin’ about Jimmy all of a sudden?”

“I just—I’m not really asking about Jimmy, specifically. I mean, like, dating up in general,” she clarifies. “Someone wealthy and well-adjusted or whatever. Was that weird for you?”

“Debs, the guy had three names, he sure as fuck wasn’t well-adjusted. None of the guys I’ve dated have been. Don’t think they would’ve gone anywhere near me otherwise.”

Debbie grimaces. Is that why Greg is with her then? He’s attractive and smart and regularly goes to places like Hawaii in the summer with his family. She remembers the English class they first met in and how she couldn’t quite believe a guy like him was actually smiling at her. He lives in a nice house in a safe neighborhood with still-married parents who are more than happy to help him pay his tuition. Did the fact that he even noticed someone like her mean something was wrong with him?

Fiona smiles and moves closer to her. She lifts her hand and tucks a loose curl behind Debbie’s ear. “So, you worried about that new guy you got? The one you ain’t telling me about. He loaded or something?”

It surprises her Fiona can still read her so well. They’ve been building their relationship back up to what it was before it went to shit, sure, but it hasn’t been an easy road. Though maybe Fiona never really stopped understanding her. “Yeah,” she sighs. “His name is Greg. We have a lot in common, and I think he might really like me for some reason, but I just—I don’t know. He’s too good for me.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s not true.”

Debbie groans. “Trust me, it is. He knows I’m poor, saw my financial aid forms. But I don’t think he really knows what _poor_ means, in this case. What happens when he comes here? What happens when I have to tell him I got knocked up at fifteen and dropped out of high school?”

“You don’t gotta tell him shit. It’s not his business. And I’ll have ya know that is what they call an _up-and-coming_ neighborhood.”

“Sure it is,” Debbie says, with a smirk. “Are there things you don’t tell Sean?”

Fiona appears to think about that for a second and then shakes her head. “No, I guess not. But he ain’t got any room to judge me, so I never felt weird about it. Guy’s somehow got more baggage than me.” Debbie rolls her eyes and looks back at the mirror. “Alright, fine, so, you tell him. And if he’s got a problem with it, then fuck him.”

“I don’t—I don’t think he’s going to have a problem with it,” she starts. “I’m more worried he’s going to feel bad for me. Like he’s gonna want to give me stuff or take care of me. Right now it feels like we’re equals. I don’t want to be some guy’s charity case girlfriend.”

“What’s he got to feel bad for you about?” Fiona challenges, grabbing Debbie’s shoulders to turn her around so they’re facing each other again. “Everything you’ve been through, that just made you stronger, you got that? You’ve had to fight for everything you’ve got, kiddo. You’re amazing, and if he can’t see that, he’s an idiot. You think he’s an idiot?”

Debbie lets herself smile. “No.”

“Then tell him.” Fiona pats her cheek and pulls her into a hug. “And it’s okay to let someone take care of you sometimes, you know.” When Fiona pulls back to grin at her, there are tears shining in her eyes. “It’s good to see you. You gotta come home more often. Bring him with you next time. I promise we’ll try our best not to scare the shit out of him.”

Debbie laughs and hugs her again, burying her face in Fiona’s shoulder. There are tears in her eyes too, but she doesn’t cry. She’s determined not to cry, not today. She just has to get through the next couple of hours and then she can get drunk enough to forget about how it felt when Frank’s hand went limp in hers.

 

* * *

 

The funeral is short. Only her siblings, Kev and V, and a couple of the Alibi regulars show up. And, out of them, Kev and Debbie are the only ones willing to say a few words. Hers aren’t particularly meaningful ones, but she talks about him reading _The Hunger Games_ to her and Carl and about him going around the table to tell his kids he loved them. She paints a picture that is far from the truth, but no one argues with her. Not even Lip, who has been dangerously on edge since Frank died.

She still doesn’t cry. No one does except Kermit. Eventually, the regulars head over to the bar with Kev and V. The Gallaghers stick around the cemetery though, gathered around Frank’s small gravestone— _Frank Gallagher_ , _Loving Husband and Devoted Father_. The engraving almost makes her laugh out loud.

The sound of Ian and Mickey whispering harshly behind her distracts her from the words. They’re arguing about something. They’ve been arguing all morning, which is probably why Ian never showed up to the house. Ian’s mouth is pressed into a hard, stubborn line, and Mickey is bouncing on the balls of his feet while he talks like he’s barely resisting marching away. She considers going over to them and _accidentally_ breaking it up. They shouldn’t be fighting today. None of them need the added stress.

By the time she finally resolves to casually walk over, it’s too late. Someone else interrupts them first. It’s the wailing that shuts them up, loud and dramatic like something out of a bad movie. They all turn at the same time and see her walking down the winding path, her graying blonde hair blowing freely in the wind. She’s wearing a black dress that’s too tight on her. There’s makeup running down her face in dark streaks. None of them say a word when she reaches the group and promptly collapses next to the grave, crying out for Frank.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Fiona crosses her arms and looks back at the rest of them, like she needs confirmation that they’re seeing what she’s seeing. “What are you doing here, Monica?”

“My husband is _dead_!” Monica screeches. “He’s dead, and you ask me what I’m doing here? What is wrong with you, Fiona? You didn’t even call me! None of you called. If it weren’t for Ian leaving me a message this morning, I wouldn’t have even known to come.”

_Ah,_ Debbie thinks, _that’s what him and Mickey are fighting about._

“What?” Lip’s voice is dark, mean. The sound of it cuts through Debbie, and she swiftly moves to place herself between her brothers, just in case. “Ian called you?”

“Don’t, Lip.” Fiona shoots him a warning glare and places a hand on his chest to push him back slightly. When Lip shuts his mouth and holds up his hands, she turns back to Monica. “You haven’t seen him in _years_. You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I loved him,” Monica argues. “I loved him more than any of you ever did!”

“Oh, of course you did,” Fiona sneers back. “That must be why you were never around. You didn’t even know he was sick.”

Monica’s chin quivers as she juts it out defiantly. Debbie tries not to think about how much that single action reminds her of Ian. “How dare you, Fiona. How—how—” Monica’s voice cracks and then dies out. She starts to breathe erratically, wheezing out short, shallow breaths. She clutches her chest and leans back on her heels. She looks genuinely upset. Like a woman who has just had her heart broken. Debbie’s hands itch to reach out to her, to brush through her mother’s hair the way she knows Monica likes. 

Monica doesn’t even look Debbie's way when she stands. She pushes past her and grabs for Ian instead, tugging him into her arms. Another sob breaks free from deep in her chest. Debbie flinches at the violent sound of it, and her heart aches when Ian runs a hand over Monica’s bright hair and whispers something in her ear. Whatever he says soothes her enough that she lets him grasp her elbow and pull her away. The look on Mickey’s face is stuck somewhere between concern and fury as the two of them walk off. Lip is cursing under his breath behind her while Fiona futilely tries to calm him down.

Fuck, it’s going to be a long day. But she doesn’t cry. She’s not going to fucking cry.

 

* * *

 

“You gave her _money_? What the actual fuck is wrong with you, Ian? That’s our fuckin’ money. The money we’re supposed to buy a house with someday, remember?” Debbie stops dead in her tracks. She was going to head to the back of the Alibi to catch her breath for a minute, but Ian and Mickey have beaten her to it.

“She’s not—Jesus, she’s not doing well. Her girlfriend broke up with her, and she’s got no one right now. She’s alone.” She doesn’t like how defeated her brother sounds. It forces her to remember the days after his diagnosis, when she feared she might lose him forever. “She’s my mother.”

“And she hasn’t done shit for you but fuck up your life.”

“You don’t know shit about that, Mick.”

“Oh, I don’t know shit, huh?” Mickey shouts. “Well, I know every time that bitch shows up, you fall apart. And I know she’s the one who took you away from me and put all that stupid shit in your head about not needin’ your meds. I know that sometimes she _still_ tries to convince you to stop taking ‘em. You gonna deny that?” Debbie cautiously pokes her head around the corner and sees Mickey pacing, but Ian’s out of sight. “She’s never gonna be _well_ , Ian. You saw her today. No amount of money she cons you outta is gonna make a difference.”

“She’s didn’t _con_ me,” Ian counters. “And she’s upset about Frank. Someone she loved died. How the hell do you expect her to act?”

“She’s not upset, she’s just fucking crazy.”

A long pause follows that declaration. Every second the silence stretches on makes Debbie’s stomach twist tighter. She can’t see Ian at all, but she knows what he’s thinking. She knows what he really heard Mickey say. “Fuck you,” Ian spits. “Seriously, fuck you. If she’s crazy then I am too. You realize that, right?”

“It’s not the same, and you know it,” Mickey says, his voice softening. “I’m not saying—I’m just—she’s taking advantage of you. Why can’t you see that?”

“I’m a fucking adult. I’m not a child, and I’m not an idiot. I know giving her money isn’t gonna magically fix everything, alright? I know she’s not gonna suddenly wake up one day and want to actually be my mom. That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“Then why? Fuckin’ explain it to me.”

“Because if I don’t help her, who the hell will? Look, I don’t need you or anyone else policing what I do. Either I’m fine and can handle myself, or I’m crazy and I can’t. So which one is it?” Mickey doesn’t answer, just stares down at the concrete. “If I want to talk to my mother, I’m gonna talk to her. If I want to help her, I’m gonna help her. And if you don’t like it, you can fuck off.”

 

* * *

 

Ian’s gone. So is Lip. She hopes they didn’t go somewhere together because she can’t see that ending well. Everyone else is still hanging around the Alibi, long past drunk. Fiona is slumped against Sean, slurring through horror stories about Frank’s parenting. Monica has fallen asleep on the bar, some vomit clinging to her hair. Carl and Liam are nearby, playing a weird clapping game with Sasha, mercifully distracting the kid from the shit show going on around her. Mickey is stewing in a corner booth, glaring down at his phone like it’s personally wronged him.

“Are you okay?” Debbie slides into the seat across from him. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ll make sure everyone gets home okay.”

“Can’t leave,” Mickey mutters, not looking up from his phone. “Your stupid brother took off with Lip to who-knows-where. Figure he might come back here eventually.”

“Oh, so when you’re mad at him he’s suddenly _my_ brother and not _your_ husband?” she teases. It was supposed to be a joke, but the frown on Mickey’s face deepens.

“Why’s he always gotta throw himself into trouble?” The question comes out in a whisper, like he’s not sure if he should be asking her.

People could probably ask the same thing about any of the Gallaghers. They could probably ask it of Mickey, too. But she knows what he means. Monica _is_ trouble. Monica has always been trouble. But knowing that isn’t always enough of a reason to stay away. Debbie knows that better than anyone. “We still love Monica,” she says, tapping her fingertips against the table. “I mean, all of us do in some way, but I think it’s different for me and Ian.”

“Why?” Mickey asks. He doesn’t look angry or even judgmental, just tired.

“I don’t know. We've spent more time with her, and she wasn’t always awful,” she explains. “And she—she just had this way of making me feel special sometimes. I never really felt like I fit in anywhere. I was lonely a lot. Monica was good at making me forget about that even when she was pulling stupid shit. I think it’s probably the same with Ian."

“But why let her in if she’s just gonna fuck off again? I don’t get it." 

“It’s not that easy, I guess.” She reaches for the untouched beer in front of Mickey and gulps some of it down. “We see parts of ourselves in her. Admitting she’s a lost cause feels like—like, you know.”

Mickey bites the corner of his lip and then buries his face in his hands. After a moment, he looks up and meets her eyes. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I know. Will you just call him, please? Check on him for me? He’s ignoring me, but he might answer you.”

Debbie forces herself to smile. “Sure, Mickey.”

 

* * *

 

She finds Ian exactly where she expects to find him, sitting at Fiona’s kitchen table, only a few feet away from where Monica once nearly bled out on the floor. “Lip here?”

Ian nods up toward the ceiling. “Upstairs. He’s mad at me. Seems to be the theme of the day.”

Debbie walks over to the fridge and grabs two beers. She sits at the table, pushes one over to him, and then cracks open her own. “I still love her too, you know. I thought about calling her a hundred times. I even stopped by where I thought she might be living last night. Ended up chickening out at the last minute. Didn’t want to get shit from Lip about it.”

Ian snorts and then opens his beer too. “Can’t imagine why,” he drawls. “I knew he’d hate this. I knew Mickey would too, but I just—Frank loved her. We talked about it once. It’s like the one civil conversation we ever had. He loved her. He would’ve wanted her here. I didn’t think it was fair for her not to know he died.”

“You don’t have to defend it to me,” Debbie says. “I get it. I think you did the right thing." 

Ian’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Yeah. Come on, I’m the idiot who wouldn’t leave Frank’s bedside, remember? I’m not gonna judge you for getting sentimental.” Ian smiles at her, and she cautiously adds, “But, after this, I think—I think you need to let her go again. You’ve got a life now, and she’ll just fuck it up. You know her, Ian.”

“Yeah,” Ian sighs. “I know her.”

Debbie scoots her chair around the table until they’re side-by-side. She lets her head rest on his shoulder. He tenses up at first but then relaxes and put his arm around her. “So, I’ve got a rich boyfriend now,” she tells him. “He’s nice and smart and hot as fuck and I think he might love me. I haven’t told anyone yet, but Fi figured it out. He’s way out of my league.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, seriously, he’s legit rich. Like—”

“Not what I meant, Debs.”

Debbie furrows her brow. “Then what did you mean?”

“No one’s out of your league. This dude, whoever he is, is the lucky one. Trust me.” 

And that’s when she finally lets herself cry.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_August_

 

The cruise tickets are mocking her. They’re still on the kitchen table, where she and Jason had dinner last night to celebrate their anniversary. She scowls at them. She thought it was finally going to be the night. She thought the present Jason put in front of her was going to be an engagement ring, not some weird Alaskan cruise. Isn’t it cold in Alaska anyways? Who the fuck wants to go there? 

_I don’t know if I want to get married._ Mandy had lost it after that. She regressed back into the girl she thought she left behind in Chicago. Throwing lamps and cans and whatever else she could get her hands on. It’s all cleaned up now. Jason must have gotten up early. The fucker probably thought he could erase the fight by erasing the damage, but Mandy is still pissed.

_I don’t know if I want to get married._ He’s told her that from the beginning, but she’s always figured that’s just what guys said until they finally found _the one_. Years of commitment and a daughter later though, and now all she can hear is, _I don’t know if I want to marry_ you _._ All she can hear is, _I don’t think_ you’re _good enough._

Part of her wants to trash the apartment again, to break whatever’s left to break. If her daughter wasn’t back at home, sleeping soundly in the next room, she probably would. Sometimes she can feel the old her pounding at the insides of her ribs, begging to be set free. But she has to control that part of her if she wants to stay here. If she wants to keep living this life she's fought so hard for.

She wraps her hand around one of Jason’s stupid potted plants, wondering if the sound of it crashing into the wall would wake Beth up. Her phone starts to ring before she can find out. She assumes it’s Jason and plans on ignoring it, but when she sees Ian’s name flashing across the screen instead, she takes a deep breath and answers.

“You wouldn’t believe the fuckin’ night I had.”

“Hey, Mands.” Ian’s voice is timid, maybe even anxious, and she immediately knows something’s wrong. The last time he sounded like this he was calling to tell her Mickey had been shot. “I, uh—do you have a second to talk?”

“What happened? Is Mickey okay?” 

“Um, yeah, sort of. Mandy, your uh—Terry’s dead. He died in prison. Last night.”

_Terry’s dead. Terry’s fucking dead._ Mandy laughs. Thank Christ it’s only Ian on the phone, because anyone else would think she’s lost her mind. She can’t stop laughing. For some reason, it’s hilarious, thinking of Terry taking his last breath while she’s tearing apart her own life. The life he did his best to prevent her from ever having. “Someone stab him? Can I send whoever it was a thank you card?”

“It was lung cancer, actually.”

“Well, shit. Seems too kind a way to go for that asshole. How’s Mickey taking it?”

Ian takes too long to respond for the answer to be _well_. “He’s been a little weird. I don’t know what’s going on with him,” he admits. “I’m not sure what he’s thinking.”

“You ask him?”

“‘Course I fuckin’ asked him." 

Mandy laughs again, because apparently she just can’t control herself anymore. “How lucky are we? This must be the summer of dead deadbeat dads, I guess. The summer of fuckin’ freedom. Is there gonna be a funeral? Or you just tossin’ his ashes in the nearest dumpster?”

“There’s gonna be a funeral. Your uncles want one, I think. And Colin’s out now, so he’s planning everything. Said he didn’t have your number anymore, so I wanted to let you know. I’m not sure if Mick’s gonna go, but if you—”

She hangs up before he can finish talking. Her mind is racing all of a sudden, buzzing. Visions of Terry gasping for air, of Terry hovering over her, of Terry holding her down all flash before her eyes. And then she spots the cruise tickets again. Those fucking tickets.

She’s packing a suitcase before she really even knows what she’s planning to do with it. She throws Beth’s stuff in with hers and then zips it shut. She’s going home, and that fucker who claims to love her can’t do anything about it. Maybe he’ll realize what a fucking idiot he is once she’s gone. Or maybe they’ll both realize the South Side is where she really belongs, where she’s always belonged.

 

* * *

 

“You didn’t have to come.” Her brother looks exhausted when he opens the door. Agitated, too, which makes her suspect she’s interrupting something. There are dark circles under his eyes and a deep frown etched on to his face. Even when Beth cheerfully greets him and starts tugging at the bottom of his t-shirt, he still doesn’t smile, just pats the top of her head and lets them in.

The apartment smells good, like bacon and maple syrup. There are plates of food sitting on the table, but they don’t look like they’ve been touched. “I wanted to come,” she says. “I needed to get away for a while anyways. Ian here?”

“No.” Mickey runs a hand through his already messy hair and stares at the food for a moment. “You guys want something to eat? There’s plenty. I think we got orange juice, too.”

“I want juice!” Beth exclaims, grabbing at his shirt again. He nods, offers her daughter the smallest of smiles, and walks into the kitchen.

Mandy leans against the counter and watches him bustle around, grabbing cups and pouring out juice and coffee, the frown never once leaving his face. “So you just made all this food and set out two plates for yourself then?”

Mickey stops moving. He’s still for a while before answering. “No, Ian made the food,” he says. “We, uh, we sorta got into it. He left like five minutes before you got here. Went to work early.”

“Didn’t make the bacon burnt to shit the way you like it?”

That earns her a laugh, which quiets some of her unease. There’s something about the abandoned plates she finds unsettling. It reminds her of those scenes in zombie movies where they walk into an abandoned house and see the dead family’s dinner still sitting there, rotting on the table. He flicks his thumb over his nose and sighs. “He thinks I’m being _secretive_ ,” he explains. “Which is fucking ironic, if you ask me. If anyone’s secretive between the two of us, it’s him.”

“You sure you're not shutting him out?” Mickey pulls the corner of his lip between his teeth, which she knows means that he is. Of course Terry is fucking with them, even from the grave. He doesn’t answer, so she tries another approach to getting at the problem. “Is Terry dying freaking you out for some reason? Because I’m personally ready to throw a fuckin’ party. Might even shell out some money for champagne tonight. And not the cheap kind, either.” He’s still silent, still biting down on his lip. “What’s going on, Mickey?” she asks. “We’re finally free.”

A plate clatters against the floor, and Mandy turns around to see Beth standing over a pile of scattered breakfast food. She’s about to scold her and tell her to pick it up, but that’s when Mickey decides to snap out of his stupor. “It’s just—it’s hard to believe, isn’t it? That he’s really gone. That there’s—that there’s no way he’s coming back.”

“I guess,” she says. “I’ll feel better once I see his ashes for myself.”

“He caught us once, you know.”

“What?” she blurts out, honestly stunned. “Like, you and Ian?”

Mickey nods and scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, when we were—before Ian left the first time. He walked in on us fuck—” His eyes dart over to Beth, who has taken to picking up individual sausage links from the floor and arranging them into a flower on the table, and he amends the story, “Uh, doing you know what on the couch. Lost his mind. I thought for sure he was gonna kill me, but I didn’t care. I just didn’t want him to hurt Ian.”

“Jesus.” Mandy lets out a shaky breath and presses her hands over her eyes. “I can’t believe neither of you ever told me that.”

“We were still a secret back then. And then after—I don’t know, I don’t think either of us ever really wanted to think about it again. We don’t talk about it.”

“I’m sorry, Mickey. I’m sorry that happened.”

“I just—I thought I’d feel free, you know? Once he was gone. I thought he’d die and, like, this fuckin’ weight would be off my shoulders or somethin’. I thought everything would be good, but it’s all falling to shit anyways.” His hand shakes slightly, and some of the juice he’s pouring spills on to the counter. “But I can barely sleep, can’t fucking eat. I just keep thinkin’ about it all. I keep thinkin’ about him holding a gun on Ian, and I can’t fuckin’ stand it.”

Mandy doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s not sure if she feels free yet, the way Mickey wants to feel. She’s gotten real good at not thinking about the past. It’s been a long time since she’s been honest with herself about what Terry did to her, and she’s sure as hell never told Jason about it. The further she traveled from Chicago, the easier it was to pretend she had never been a victim of such a sick crime. The easier it got to pretend that she was someone else entirely.

She doesn’t know what to say and she’s not sure he’s giving her the full story about what’s bothering him. But she doesn’t want to push him to talk anymore, so she hugs him instead, digging her fingers into his back. “You might not feel it yet, but we _are_ free. That bastard died alone and miserable, but we won’t. We’re going to be happy, because fuck him. _Fuck him_.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey takes Beth out for lunch, and Mandy claims she’s going to visit Ian at the café. Except when she gets to the café, she keeps walking and walking until she finds herself standing in front of Lip Gallagher’s door.

_I wish things could have been different._ She thinks about their last conversation more than she cares to admit. She thinks about how he’s doing, if he’s happy, if he’s sober. She thinks about picking up the phone and calling to ask him herself, but she never does.

“Shit, hey.” Lip’s eyes are wide when he sees her. They travel over her, up and down, in a way that almost makes her blush. But she smirks instead, because she made a promise to herself to never let him feel like he had the upper hand with her again. “What’re you uh, what’re you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming to town.”

“Last minute decision. Gonna invite me in?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Yeah.”

The apartment is a wreck. Clothes are hanging off of all the furniture, dirty plates are stacked on the kitchen island, and the carpet looks like it hasn’t been vacuumed in months. It’s pretty gross, but she’s comforted by the fact that there aren’t any empties among all the crap on the floor. “You might wanna invest in a maid service,” she suggests. “Or, you know, just clean up your shit like an adult.”

Lip laughs and looks around to survey his apartment. “Yeah, sorry, I’ve been disgustingly busy with work. Didn’t expect company.”

He starts clearing off his couch, but she stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine. So, you look sober. How are you?”

“Yeah, um, six months,” Lip says casually. She’s about to tell him what a big fucking deal that is, but he keeps talking. “And shouldn’t I be asking you that question? Sorry for your loss, by the way.”

“My loss? Jesus, don’t be sorry about that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not. Just being polite.” He stares at her for a moment before adding, “Are you alright though? My dad’s death threw me off for a while. Thought I was looking at my own future play out in front of me.”

“That’s not gonna happen to you, Lip,” she promises him, squeezing the shoulder she still has her hand on. “I’m not sure how many times I need to tell you that.” He grins at her, and, god, does that make her feel special. She wishes it didn’t, but she can’t deny the warmth that bursts in her chest. “I’m alright, I guess. This whole funeral thing is just an excuse to get away from everything.”

“Everything being?”

“Jason. My own shitty decisions.” She lets her hand drop and then sits on the couch. “I thought he was gonna ask me to marry him on our anniversary, and he just—he gave me fucking cruise tickets. To fucking Alaska.” She tries to laugh, but her voice cracks instead, leaving her dangerously close to crying. “Why does no one ever think I’m good enough?”

“Mandy.” Lip says her name softly, almost reverently. He eases into the seat next to her, one leg tucked under himself so he can face her. His knee knocks into hers, and she looks down at where their bodies are now connected. “I’m sure that’s not what this is about. Did he say that?”

“Why else wouldn’t he want to marry me?” she snaps. “We live together. I’m the mother of his fuckin’ kid. I pack that fucker his lunch before we go to work every morning. But that doesn’t mean shit, because I’m still _me_.”

“And what the hell does that mean? Mandy, you’re perfect.”

_Fuck you._ That’s her first reaction. Her only reaction. _Fuck you, Lip Gallagher, for saying that ten years too late. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you._ She slaps him. The contact stings even though there wasn’t much force behind it. His head barely moves, and he doesn’t even look surprised. “You’re a liar,” she sneers at him. “You’re a fuckin’ liar. You don’t get to say shit like that to me.”

“Mandy.” And there he is, saying her name again. Saying it like it means something to him.

“Why didn’t you ever love me?” She’s shouting, but her voice sounds weak. This isn’t something that should still matter to her. She knows it’s pathetic that she’s even asking, but she needs to know. “I did _everything_ for you, but you never loved me. Please don’t try to tell me you did, because I know you didn’t. I just need to know _why_.”

“I don’t know.” He’s not crying the way she is, but his eyes are glassy and he has to clear his throat before speaking again. “I really don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“You ruined everything,” she accuses, backing away from him so their knees are no longer touching. Even that much contact is too much. “You ruined me.” She runs a sleeve over her eyes, trying to sweep away the tears clinging to her cheeks and regain some of her dignity. “I didn’t have dreams until I met you and Ian. Just figured I’d live and die in South Side, you know? Get knocked up young, have some kids with some asshole, die like my mother did. And then I met you fuckin’ Gallaghers, and you filled my head with all this shit. You ruined me.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t want—” He stops and takes a breath. “I hope that’s not true, because you saved me, Mandy. I don’t think I’d be here without you.”

That breaks her. Something snaps inside of her, and she kisses him without really considering if that’s even what she wants. All she knows is she needs to be close to him. She needs to feel if he really means what he said. When their lips meet, there’s no more denying that a part of her still loves him. A part of her will probably always love him no matter how far away from Chicago she manages to run. There isn’t any smoke or whiskey on his lips, but he still tastes the same. Familiar and wonderful and heartrending at the same time.

It’s only a brief kiss. It could almost be interpreted as an innocent one, if it had been shared with anyone else. They lean away from each other, and a long silence falls over them until her phone starts ringing. Of course it’s Jason’s name she sees when she pulls it out of her bag. She texted him where she would be, but he hasn’t stopped calling. There are at least five voicemails waiting to be listened to, but she’s too scared to open them. And now she has to feel guilty on top of that.

“You should answer it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he loves you,” Lip says, with a hesitant smile. “I could tell, at Ian’s wedding. Just because he’s not proposing doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. He kept talking about all the things you guys were gonna do together. All the places you would take Beth. Just hear him out.”

It’s not the advice she expects from him. “But how—how am I supposed to explain this?”

He seems to realize what she’s really asking him for—permission to pretend this never happened, to never speak of it again, to never let it happen again. “It was nothing,” he assures her. “You deserve to be happy, Mandy. And I think you’re happy now, with him and your daughter. You deserve that and anything else you could possibly want. I’m not gonna fuck that up for you.”

The phone is still ringing, but she has one more question she wants to ask. “Are you happy, Lip?”

The tentative smile on his face grows a little. “I’m trying.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

_Please come home._ The priest is talking about heaven or some dumb bullshit like that—like Terry’s going anywhere but the deepest depths of hell—but Mandy’s not paying attention. She keeps hearing Jason’s last voicemail. She listened to them all after leaving Lip’s place. She ended up crying on the El, which might just be the most embarrassing thing she’s ever done. _I’m so sorry. We can talk about it, Mandy. I shouldn’t have just said it like that. We can figure something out. I love you. I love Beth. Please come back home. All I want is you guys. You know that._

The truth is, she does know that. If he didn’t think she was good enough, he could have left her years ago. But he stayed, even when she accidentally got knocked up. He stayed and never wavered. She wishes it was enough to wipe away all of the stupid insecurities that still linger inside of her. Coming back to this place had been mistake. It only makes the cynical voices in her head louder.

She looks down at her watch. A half hour has gone by already, but the priest keeps on talking. Colin must have threatened the guy with something awful for him to even bother coming here let alone make such a long fucking speech.

Everyone looks painfully bored, and she’s pretty sure Colin’s sneaking sips from a flask. Mickey is standing near him, muttering something under his breath that she can’t quite make out from where she is. He looks pissed, eyes narrowed and eyebrows folded together. Iggy’s got a hard grip on his shoulder, which seems to be the only thing keeping him rooted in place.

As the ashes are placed into the ground, Ian appears next to her. He’s been here since it all started, hanging around the outside of the gathered Milkoviches, pretty much as far away from Mickey as he can get. She’s not sure why he felt the need to come if Mickey didn’t want him to. There’s got to be better things he could be doing than pretending to give a shit about Terry. “Why are you here?” she asks quietly, threading her fingers with his. “You didn’t have to be here.”

“I just—” Ian looks over at Mickey, who seems to be purposefully avoiding even so much as glancing in their direction at the moment. “He didn’t want me to come, but I just wanted to make sure he was okay. He won’t talk to me about any of this.”

“It’s not happening fast enough,” she tells him. “We thought Terry dying would make it all go away, but that’s not how it works. We’re still us, damage and all.”

Ian nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that. But—”

“Just give him time. This is bringing up a lot of shit, I think.”

“I will. I’m not gonna push him, but I’m still gonna be here. If he needs me.” Ian lifts her hand, so he can circle it with his other one as well. He presses a kiss to her knuckles, and she giggles at what a dork he can be sometimes. “How are you doing?”

_Please come home._ She hears Jason’s voice again and smiles. _I love you._ “I’m alright. Just ready to go back home. Get everything sorted.”

Ian wraps his arms around her, and she practically melts into the embrace. Being in Ian’s arms has always made her feel safe, even when the rest of her life was a mess. It might be what she misses most about Chicago every time she leaves. She thinks sometimes that Ian might actually be her soulmate, if there is such a thing. “I’m going to miss you, Mands.”

“Always,” she replies. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” He buries a hand in her hair and pulls her even closer. They just stand there silently wrapped up in each other for a while until he whispers in her ear, “I think after everyone leaves I’m going to piss on the fucker’s grave.”

Mandy laughs into his shoulder. “Nah, you and Mickey should fuck on it.”

“Oh god, don’t give me ideas.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_September_

 

After the play ends, they say goodbye to Svetlana and Yevgeny leads Ian through the streets of the New York town to his favorite ice cream place. “You were so good,” Ian tells him for at least the tenth time in the span of a half hour. “Seriously. Where’d you learn to _act_?”

Yevgeny shrugs and bows his head shyly, but he’s grinning. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to try out for any sports, but my mom said I had to do _something_ , so.” His cheeks redden slightly and he adds, “Plus, there was sort of this girl, you know, in drama club.”

“Ooh,” Ian chuckles, lifting his eyebrows. “A girl, huh? And what’s this girl’s name?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Yev says, rolling his eyes. “It didn’t really work out, but I ended up liking the whole acting thing. I think I’m gonna do the spring play, too. We’re doing Shakespeare.”

“You should,” Ian tells him, sincerely. Drama isn’t what Ian would’ve expected Yev to gravitate towards, but as long as it’s not Junior ROTC, he’s happy. “You were awesome up there, man. Just don’t forget about me when you get famous. And remember to thank me in your Oscar speech.”

“No promises,” Yev teases, before sprinting out ahead of him. “Race me!” he calls out, but Ian’s too exhausted from traveling all the way out here to even consider that.

Yevgeny comes to a stop in front of the ice cream shop, hangs off the handle of the door, and yells out for Ian to hurry up. But the sight of his stepson under the bright lights of the store stops him in his tracks. The blue of his eyes slices right through the night, and Ian is sure he has never looked more like his father than he does in that moment with a wide, teasing grin and eyebrows raised. For a second, all Ian can see is Mickey staring back at him, young and happy and free. It feels like someone is clutching his heart, squeezing so tight it aches. But it’s a good ache. It’s an ache he recognizes now as love. He just wishes Mickey could be here with him to see this.

“Come _on_ , Ian!” Yevgeny whines, tearing him out of his thoughts. “I’m hungry. Jeez, are you getting old or something?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious. I’m coming, asshole.”

They sit at a table in the back. They eat silently at first, too focused on devouring their chocolate ice cream cones with chocolate sprinkles to talk. He wonders if they ended up ordering Mickey’s favorite because they’re both missing him at that moment. _Only three more months_ , he reminds himself. Only three more months, and Mickey will finally be off parole if everything goes through okay. Ian hasn’t even let himself consider the possibility that it might not.

“Do you think Dad would’ve liked it too? I know he’s not really into plays and all that, but I thought the story was pretty cool.”

“Of course, yeah,” Ian assures him. “He’s gonna love it. I recorded it for him.”

Yevgeny’s entire face lights up. Once he hit his teenage years, he started trying to play things cooler, but sometimes he slips up and still beams the way he used to as a kid. “That’s, uh, that’s really cool. Thanks.”

“Sure.” Ian takes a bite of his cone, swallows, and then asks, “So, how’s the rest of school going? Any other girls catching your eye?”

Yevgeny scowls at the question the same way he remembers scowling whenever Fiona tried to pry into his life. “Ugh, Dad, _don’t_.”

The world screeches to a halt. The sounds of the people sitting around them and ordering at the counter fade away until it’s just him and Yevgeny. _Dad._ He’s never been called that before, and he figured he never would be. He and Mickey agreed after they got married that they didn’t want any more kids. Ian has never regretted the decision, because Yevgeny is his son, even if not by blood. He’s thought of himself as Yevgeny’s dad for so long that he’s thrown off by how much actually hearing the word directed at him stuns him.

“Oh. Um.” Yevgeny bites down on his lip. It’s what he always does when he’s anxious about something, just like Mickey. Ian isn’t sure what he has to be nervous about until he realizes that his own jaw is hanging open. Christ, he’s probably freaking the poor kid out. “Was that weird? Is it okay I called you that?”

_Yes,_ he thinks. There’s a lump building in his throat that he has to cough away before he finally manages to actually speak the word. “Yes.”

“Oh my god, are you crying?”

Ian drags the sleeve of his sweater over his wet eyes. “ _No_ ,” he lies, swatting at Yevgeny’s arm from across the table playfully. “This place is just dusty.”

“ _Right_ ,” Yevgeny intones. They fall back into a slightly less comfortable silence, as Ian tries to calm himself down, so he doesn’t start really crying and embarrass the kid. As they finish up their cones, Yevgeny keeps eyeing him and then looking away. It’s clear he has something else he wants to say, so Ian waits for him to get there on his own. “I just got used to calling you Ian, you know?” he finally says. “You’ve always been _Ian_ , for as long as I can remember. Doesn’t mean you’re not my dad, too. You always have been.”

An odd little noise that’s something between a laugh and sob bursts out of him against his will. Any chance of him not crying at this table in front of all these people promptly dies. Tears build in his eyes even as he smiles. This isn’t the kind of display teenagers are typically okay with, especially in public, but Yevgeny doesn’t look annoyed. He leans across the table and punches Ian in the shoulder. “Didn’t mean to spring feelings on you out of nowhere,” he teases. “Dad’s right. You’re a sap.”

“Oh, shut up. This is all your fault, you little bastard,” Ian laughs, running his sleeve over his face again. After a couple of quiet but deep breaths, he manages to add, “I’ve always seen you as my son. Since the beginning, really. No matter where your father and I were with each other.”

Yevgeny nods and bites his lip again. “I know. Aunt Mandy told me you brought over clothes and stuff for me when I was a baby. Right after I was born.”

“She did, huh? That was supposed to be a secret.”

“Well, not anymore.” Yevgeny brushes his hands down the front of his jeans and then cocks an eyebrow at Ian. “Can you stop smiling at me like that? You look deranged.”

“Tell you what, give me a hug and I’ll try to control myself.”

He doesn’t look particularly thrilled about hugging his dad in front of a nearby table full of pretty teenage girls, but he doesn’t protest when Ian pulls him into his arms. “I wish you didn’t have to leave tomorrow,” he says quietly, once Ian lets him go. “Are you sure you can’t stay another couple days?”

“I wish, but I’ve got work. You’ll be down for Christmas before you know it.”

“I guess.”

“And I might just have a surprise for you once Christmas comes.” Yevgeny grins, and Ian can’t help but reach out and ruffle his hair up like he used to when he was younger.

“Something good?”

“Oh yeah, kid. Just you wait.”

 

* * *

 

“Why’s it all out of focus?”

Ian squints at the television and shakes his head. The picture looks fine to him. “I don’t know. What do you mean? I thought I had it on all the right settings. You can see everything.”

“Yeah, but it looks like they’re performing in the fuckin’ fog or something,” Mickey complains. “And the screen keeps shaking. You shoot up ‘fore you went to this thing?”

The tone of Mickey’s voice makes Ian’s shoulders tense up around his neck. Mickey has been snapping at him for the smallest things since he got back from New York. More accurately, he’s been snapping at him for the smallest things for weeks now, and Ian’s not sure he has the energy for another fight about nothing. They haven’t slept together in weeks either. There’s something wrong. Something that Mickey clearly isn’t in a rush to confront him about. Maybe he’s waiting for Ian to break and demand answers. Part of him doesn’t want to give Mickey the satisfaction of pushing him over the edge, but that’s not what’s really holding him back.

Really, he’s just terrified. It’s got to be something he’s done. At first he thought it was still the Monica thing. Calling her maybe wasn’t his finest moment, but Mickey had seemed understanding about it later that day. Then he feared maybe he hadn’t been supportive enough after Terry’s death, but he can’t imagine how it’s his fault that Mickey clams up every time he brings it up. Then he worried it was the extra hours he was spending at work lately. Though Mickey would never admit it, it’s possible he’s feeling neglected. Leaving Mickey on his own for dinner always makes him feel like shit, but he just needs a few more weeks. A few more weeks until he can finally afford the Christmas present he’s been waiting to buy Mickey for years.

Except none of those reasons explain why he caught Mickey going through his pills last night. Ian hasn’t had a slip in almost three years. He takes his pills every day, goes to therapy regularly, and even shows up at his old support group sometimes. He thought he was doing everything right, but maybe he’s missing something.

He keeps seeing the pills lined up on their bed. He keeps seeing Mickey silently counting them out on his fingers. It’s forcing Ian to reevaluate everything he’s done for the last few weeks, every emotion he’s experienced, every thought he’s expressed. Has he been showing signs of an episode without realizing it? Does Mickey see something he doesn’t? And if he does, why wouldn’t he tell him about it?

It doesn’t make any fucking sense. But he doesn’t say anything. He just needs more time to think and figure this out on his own. “I’m sorry,” Ian placates. “I thought I was holding it still.”

“I can’t even tell what’s happening,” Mickey continues to gripe.

Ian grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. He sinks his fingernails into the palms of his hands to distract himself from the anger building in his gut. _You just need a little more time_ , he thinks, trying to talk himself out of escalating this any further.

“You should have let Svetlana hold the damn thing. Was Alex there? Bet he could’ve figured it out.”

And, with that, Ian’s self-control snaps. He didn’t watch the entire fucking play through a screen just to listen to Mickey endlessly bitch about it. “I tried my best, alright?” Ian shoots back. “I did my best. I’m sorry if that isn’t good enough for you, Spielberg. I’ve got a shit phone and I ain’t a fuckin’ director or whatever, okay? I’ll talk to Svet. Maybe one of the other parents has a better one.”

“Yeah, and how long’s that gonna take to get?”

“Jesus Christ, what is up your ass lately? ‘Cos I know it’s not me.” _Well, so much for waiting to bring it up._ Mickey crosses his arms in front of his chest and ignores the question, pretending to suddenly be enthralled by Ian’s video. But the silent treatment is even more infuriating than the bitching, and now that he’s started, Ian can’t stop. “Hey, I asked you a question!” Ian steps in front of the screen and holds out his arms. “You’ve been acting weird since I got back. No, actually, scratch that. You’ve been acting weird since Terry kicked the bucket, and I’m fucking sick of it. If something’s wrong, you gotta tell me, because I don’t know what to do here, Mick. I’m going crazy trying to figure out what I did. Just tell me what I did wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Don’t be a drama queen.”

The dismissive tone of his voice hurts. The fight hasn’t even started yet, and Ian already feels defeated. He can handle Mickey’s anger. He understands anger. But he doesn’t know what to make of this annoyed indifference. It might be an act, a way to cover up what Mickey’s really feeling. It wouldn’t be the first time. If only Ian could get him to meet his damn eyes, he might be able to tell.

“You gonna fuckin’ stand there all night? I’m trying to watch something here.”

Tears swim in front of his eyes. _What the hell did I do?_ He doesn’t trust his voice not to betray how miserable he feels if he asks the question again, so he just turns around and saunters out of the living room. Without another word, he slips on his jacket, grabs his keys, and walks out the door.

 

* * *

 

“Have I been acting weird lately?”

“What do you mean by weird?”

Ian sighs and leans back on Lip’s couch. He looks over at his brother and taps his temple. “I mean crazy. Have I been acting off at all?”

Lip sits forward in his chair and stares at him. There’s concern written all over his face. “Why would you ask that? Are you feeling okay?”

“I _feel_ fine. At least, I think I do.”

“You _think_ you do?”

“Can you just answer the question?” Ian snaps, leg shaking. “Do I seem off?”

“To me? No. You’ve seemed fine.”

The answer is nearly as much of a disappointment as it is a relief. The last thing he wants is to be subjected to another round of adjusting his meds and all the delightful side effects that usually entails, but he’s desperate for an explanation. He knows it’s unlikely he could’ve been off for this long without Mickey or someone from his family mentioning it, but his health being the reason for Mickey’s sour mood would have had a solution. Now, Ian can’t help but worry something worse and infinitely more difficult to fix is at fault.

“What’s going on, Ian?”

“I think—I—” Ian chokes, his throat suddenly feeling tight. He blinks his eyes and sucks in a quick few breaths. Lip stands up from the chair and sits next to him on the sofa, patting his back, silently urging him to keep going. “I think Mickey might be done with me.”

Lip, bastard that he is, laughs. Leave it to his brother to fucking laugh while he worries about his entire world falling apart. “Yeah, no, wrong conclusion. Try again, Sherlock.”

“You’re not funny. And you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know Mickey loves you so much it’s gross,” Lip argues. “Whatever you _think_ is going on, I guarantee you it's not what's actually going on.”

“We haven’t fucked in weeks.”

Lip groans. “What did I say about talking about you and Milkovich’s sex life?” When Ian only glares at him in response, Lip holds up his hands in apology. “Fine. That isn’t that weird for a married couple though, is it?”

“I don’t know about other married couples, but it’s definitely weird for us. And he keeps snapping at me about stupid shit, like he _wants_ to start a fight. He barely looks at me. I caught him counting my fuckin’ pills the other day, which hasn’t happened in years. I just don’t get it.”

“You do something?”

Ian snorts. Even his own brother knows he’s the fuck up in this relationship. “Probably. But I have no idea what it is.”

“Did you try asking him?”

“He said nothing was wrong.”

“Huh.”

Lip tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling. The look on his face is a familiar one. He’s looking at this like it’s a puzzle to solve. It’s nice that he’s trying to help, but Ian doesn’t like feeling like a problem in need of solving. He gets enough of that shit in therapy.

“Forget it. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Seriously? But—”

“I went up to see Yevgeny's play,” he interrupts. “He called me dad afterwards. It was an accident, I think, but he—he said I was his dad.”

The expression on Lip’s face softens. “Of course you are,” he says, with a smile. “You are _married_ to his father, you know. And you’ve been taking care of that kid since he was in diapers.”

“I know. It was still nice to hear it though.”

“Yeah. I bet.” Lip is quiet for a moment. There’s a strange, dreamy sort of look in his eyes. “I’ve been thinking I might want kids someday. Is that fucked?”

The revelation is surprising enough that he manages to stop fretting over Mickey for a second and focus on his brother. Since Karen’s Asian baby fiasco, Lip has never mentioned wanting kids. Hell, Lip’s never mentioned even wanting a relationship. “Not fucked at all,” Ian says. “Didn’t know you were thinking about that though.”

Lip shrugs as he grabs a carton of cigarettes from the coffee table. That’s when Ian realizes just how clean the coffee table looks. Usually there are open books and wrappers and empty coffee cups strewn across it. Today, there’s only the pack of smokes and the glass of water Lip got for him when he first marched inside. Ian takes a moment to look over the rest of the apartment as well. “Jesus, it looks like an actual person lives here.”

Lip smirks around the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Thanks for noticing.”

“You hire a maid?”

“Nah, all me.” The flick of the liter sounds from behind him. “Trying to make some changes. The smoking might go next.”

“Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it." 

“Never say never, man. Trying to replace it with a coffee addiction.”

“Not a bad idea. A few heart palpitations every now and then beats lung cancer.” Lip laughs at that. It’s a comforting sound, his brother’s laugh. It’s good to see him looking happy and healthy. His eyes are so much brighter than they had been that snowy day Ian picked him up from the rehab facility. There’s color in his cheeks and a little more weight on his bones. “You look good, Lip.”

Ian expects him to argue. Most of the time he can’t help but argue with a compliment. “Thanks, man,” is all he says though. “I’m working on it.”

“I’m sorry I just barged in here whining about my shit.”

Lip rolls his eyes. “If we can’t whine about our shit to each other, who else we got? It’s cool. You want to order a pizza or something?”

“No,” Ian says, reluctantly. He’s tempted to spend the night here, but being a coward about all of this won’t fix anything. Running away has shot him in the foot more than it’s ever helped him. “I should be getting back home.”

“Yeah, you probably should. I really think you got this wrong, man. Just—I don’t know, just try to stay calm and talk it out with him, I guess?” Lip suggests. “And if it goes to shit, you know you can always come stay here.”

 

* * *

 

The lights are still on when he gets home. Mickey has work in the morning, so Ian expected he would have turned in by now. He hesitates outside of his apartment, hand resting on the knob without turning it. His chest feels tight. There are already tears threatening to pool in his eyes. God, he hopes his brother is right. He can’t lose this. He can’t lose Mickey. His life is finally exactly where he’s always wanted it—he has a partner he loves who will soon be free from his parole, he has a son who lets him hug him in public, and for once all of his siblings are doing well at the same time. It can’t fall apart now. It just can’t.

He’ll do anything to keep it. He’ll fight, if he needs to. He’s willing to fight for Mickey for the rest of his life if that’s what it takes to keep waking up with him in his arms. It’s that conviction that finally gives him the courage to open the door.

Mickey’s sitting on the couch. The television isn’t on. There’s no book in his lap, and his phone is sitting on the kitchen counter. He’s just sitting there, staring at his hands. Waiting, Ian realizes. Waiting for him to come home.

“Where have you been?”

“I went—”

“You better not fuckin’ lie to me, Ian.” The words are severe. They crash into him like a wave of ice water, brutal and unexpected. “I’m so sick of this.”

“Sick of what?” he asks weakly, dreading the answer. “Sick of me?”

“I’m sick of being lied to!” There’s fire in Mickey’s eyes when he springs up and turns around. He’s angry. Most people would be frightened of the look he’s fixing Ian with now, but Ian finds it reassuring. If he’s angry, he still cares. “Just tell me what’s really going on.”

“When did I lie to you, Mick? I really—I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was going to ask you what’s going on.”

A bitter laugh meets the question. “I’m not an idiot, Ian.”

“I know you’re not.”

“A few weeks back, you told me you had to work an extra shift Sunday afternoon.” Mickey begins to pace as he talks, with his balled up fists tucked under his armpits. “I wanted you to pick up some stuff when you got out, so I tried calling your cell. No answer. So I tried calling your work, and some giggly teenage girl tells me you weren’t in at all that day.”

_Oh._ Ian’s stomach sinks to his toes. Mystery solved. He knows. He knows about Monica.

“So, that night, I ask you where you been at. You tell me at fuckin’ work.”

“Why—?”

“And then you start having to work _more_ extra shifts. More and more and more. While I sit around like a fuckin’ bitch wondering where you really are. How the—how the fuck could you do this to me again, Ian?”

_Oh_ , he thinks for a second time, his stomach passing right by his toes to splatter across the floor, _he thinks I’m cheating._ A wave of nausea seizes him. _How could you think that? How could you think I could do that?_ That’s what he wants to scream out, but he already knows how Mickey could think that. He knows it’s his own fault that’s where Mickey’s mind went first. The guilt he feels is so overwhelming that for a moment he think his legs might just give out underneath him. He stumbles back, leaning against the front door and starts crying. The tears are probably only going to make protesting his innocence that much more difficult, but he can’t stop them.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes. “Fuck, Ian.” There are tears in his eyes, too.

“You’ve—you’ve thought that about me for weeks and didn’t say anything? Why wouldn’t you just ask me where I was?”

“Because I didn’t want to fuckin’ know!” Mickey roars. “What am I—what am I supposed to—?” Whatever he was going to ask never makes it out. He takes a long, shuddering breath and squeezes his eyes shut. Ian wants to reach out to him so badly. He wants to grasp his face and gently brush away the tears dripping down his cheeks. “We have a kid. We have a life. A joint fuckin’ bank account. I love you, asshole. I love you so much, and I don’t—”

“You are so wrong about this.”

“The fuck’s that mean?”

“I’m—I lied to you, but that’s not why. There’s no one else, Mick. God, I hate—I hate that you could even think that.”

Apparently that doesn’t come out the way Ian means it to, because Mickey just looks more pissed off than before. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he spits.

Ian feels himself flinch back, like a gunshot has just gone off. _I was sick then,_ he wants to argue. That’s his first thought, but it’s probably not the right one. A lot his therapy has been about accepting his actions, sick or not sick. About reconciling the darker parts of himself his illness can unleash. He could have listened to Fiona and Lip back then. He could have gone to the doctor and taken care of himself, but he didn’t. And he’ll always regret that. Mickey must have thought he was off his meds and fucking around again. That explains the pills spread out across the bed.

“I know, but it’s never going to happen again. _Never_.”

Mickey’s arms drop to his sides. He stares Ian down, eyes darting all around his face. He’s looking for a sign that Ian’s lying to him. After a minute, Ian watches as his husband’s shoulders slouch forward, as his eyebrows unfold and his fists unfurl. “I got this wrong.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Fuck, I’m an idiot.”

Ian chuckles under his breath. It’s a small, uncertain laugh that he quickly swallows. He might not be cheating, but Mickey’s not likely to be thrilled by what he’s actually been doing on Sunday afternoons. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I did lie. And I’m sorry about that. I’ve, uh—almost all of those extra shifts are real, okay? All of them ‘cept the Sunday ones. I’m trying to, well, this—I’m trying to save up for your Christmas present. It’s a surprise, so don’t you dare ask me what it is.”

“You’re workin’ extra shifts to buy me a Christmas present,” Mickey says slowly. “Well, that makes me feel like a gigantic asshole.”

“Don’t. Please.”

“So, where you been on Sundays then? Secretly volunteering with a charity? Rescuing orphans from fires? Teaching kids to read?”

Ian smirks. “No. Nothing quite that heroic. Please just—hear me out before you get mad, okay?”

Mickey frowns. “Okay. Now you’re kinda freakin’ me out again, but okay.”

Ian closes the distance between them cautiously, relieved when Mickey doesn’t try to back away. He takes Mickey’s hands and guides him down until they’re sitting on the couch, facing each other. “Monica reached out to me again, a few days after Terry died." 

“She want more money?”

“No, actually. Not this time. She wanted—she wanted me to drive her to the hospital so she could commit herself.”

“Shit, really?”

“Yeah, so I drove her there. She’s still there. I’ve been visiting her every Sunday.”

Mickey gapes at him. The way his jaw is hanging open would be kind of funny if Ian didn’t currently feel like the worst person in the world. “What the fuck, Ian? Why would you feel the need to lie about that?”

“Because you hate her! And I know she freaks you out. You get nervous every time she comes back into the picture.”

“Because she convinced you to leave your family,” Mickey argues. “She convinced you to leave me and—”

“I was eighteen and scared shitless and didn’t want to admit anything was wrong with me,” Ian interjects. “I just wanted someone to tell me I wasn’t broken, and she did that. She was the only person who didn’t look at me like I was a bomb about to go off, so I trusted her. I wasn’t ready to face the truth yet, but I’m not like that anymore.”

“I know—”

“And that’s why she can’t get to me now, alright?” Ian waits until Mickey nods to go on. “I think Frank’s death really freaked her out. She thought he would always be there, you know? Waiting for her to come back, if she wanted to. And when he died, she didn’t have that person anymore. That person who would love her no matter how far she fell, who didn’t think she was broken. She asked me for help. Real help, not money. I couldn’t say no.”

Mickey stares at him for a long moment. “I’ve never thought you were broken, Ian,” he says softly. “You know that, right?”

“I know that now,” Ian sighs. “I know that. Okay?”

“Okay.” Mickey pauses, swiping at his lip. “Do you think she’ll stick with it? The meds?”

_No_ , the realistic part of Ian’s brain mocks. _She never does._ “I don’t know. I doubt it." 

Mickey bites down on his lip and shifts the flesh back and forth between his teeth. “You’re right, I wouldn’t have liked it. Probably would’ve tried to talk you out of it,” he admits. "I’m sorry I freaked out. Was I that big of an asshole at Frank’s funeral? That you felt like you couldn’t tell me?”

Their hands are still clasped together. Ian holds Mickey’s tighter. “No. This is my fault, not yours. I think I just didn’t want to be embarrassed if I helped her out again, and she went right back to being Monica. I didn’t tell anyone. I thought you’d all say _I told you so._ I was just being a coward. But I think I’ve got a parking stub in my wallet from the place if you wanna see—”

“Relax, I believe you, Ian. Don’t gotta see anything,” Mickey says. “And don’t be embarrassed about being nice to your fuckin’ mother, Jesus. That’s not cowardly. Maybe a little stupid, in a nice way, but not cowardly." There's a small smile playing on his lips. “Fuck, can we please agree to never do this again?” he asks, scrubbing his free hand over his face. “Can we just—? From now on, we tell each other everything, okay? We _trust_ each other. Pretty sure I gave myself an ulcer over this shit.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry, just—just says yes, alright?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

“Good. Now, I need a fuckin’ drink. Or five fucking drinks. I might need a whole bar poured directly down my throat, actually.”

Mickey tries to stand, but Ian doesn’t let go of his hands. “Are you sure _that’s_ what you need?” Mickey starts to answer, but his words fade into a low moan when Ian trails a hand under his shirt. He presses down into the soft skin of Mickey’s stomach, slides his hand around to his ribs, and then brushes his thumb over his nipple. When Mickey moans again, Ian shifts forward until he’s pressing Mickey down into the sofa. He uses his other hand to grasp Mickey’s jaw, as he kisses his temple and then hovers his lips just above Mickey’s. “Because I, for one, am horny as fuck.”

“Can’t even go two weeks, huh?” Mickey teases.

“Might as well have been an eternity, honestly. Let’s promise to never do that again either, yeah? Should’ve been in our vows.” Mickey starts to laugh, but Ian swallows the noise with a deep kiss. Their lips slot together, and Mickey immediately starts yanking at the bottom of Ian’s shirt. Ian lifts his arms, so Mickey can throw it across the room, and then reaches down to remove Mickey’s as well. The initial press of skin against skin is intoxicating. It’s like Ian has been going through withdrawal for the last few weeks and is finally getting a hit of what he needs. His brain shuts off, and all he can think about is running his hands over every inch of Mickey’s body. They keep kissing like that, with Ian occasionally rolling his hips down to meet Mickey’s. They should move to the bedroom, but Ian doesn’t want to pull away from him, even for that long.

“I love you,” Mickey breathes out, once Ian releases his lips to focus on his neck instead, “So much.” Ian shivers as Mickey scratches his nails against the short hair at the base of his skull. The words snap him out of his lustful trance. He didn’t realize how much he needed to hear those words spoken like that, sweet and powerful at the same time. He buries his face in the crook of Mickey’s neck, hoping that will be enough to keep him from crying again.

“I thought you might leave me,” Ian murmurs. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“What?” Mickey squirms underneath him. He pushes at Ian’s shoulder until he finally leans back to meet his eyes. “I’m _always_ going to want you,” he says fiercely. “You’re everything, alright? You gotta know that.”

Ian slowly traces Mickey’s collarbone with his finger until he reaches the skin just above his misspelled name. He splays his hand over it. “You’re everything, too. And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_December_

 

There’s nothing Mickey can do but wait. It’s as humiliating as it is terrifying to be so trapped that the only option left is to lay in bed and think about all the shitty decisions he’s made until a knife finally stabs into his back. He’s lived most of his life in fear—fear of his father, fear of being gay and what that meant for a poor, young criminal living in the South Side of Chicago, fear of losing what little he had, fear of rotting away in prison. But this is an all new kind of fear he’s dealing with now. It’s the inevitability of it, he thinks. He might as well be a mouse dropped into a cage with a snake.

Terry is stalking him. Their years apart have not tempered his father’s rage. With his arrival at the prison, the people who protected him up until this point, his own brothers and cousins, have all turned against him. They’re stalking him too, with makeshift weapons not-so-subtly hidden up their sleeves. They won’t be the ones to slice into him though. They might hold him down or knock his teeth out or warn him not to scream, but Terry will get the honor of the final blow.

The worst part of it isn’t the dying. It’s that he has too much time to think about it. Too much time to regret that he’ll never speak to his sister again, that he won’t be able to watch his son grow up, and that he won’t be able to get that stupid cheeseburger with Ian Gallagher. The GED he earned will go to waste. It will all go to waste. He’ll just be another dead thug. All of the dreams he was naïve enough to let himself have will be snuffed out by the monster that’s always been under his bed.

“Mickey.”

He tenses and waits. Waits and waits. He’s been stabbed before. It will sting, but he’s ready for it. He just wonders if it’s worth trying to fight them off. Maybe he could call for a guard to help him, but he doubts there are any nearby that Terry hasn’t paid off.

“Mickey.”

His name again, but the strike still doesn’t come. _What is he waiting for?_

“Hey, Mick, wake up.”

The voice doesn’t sound right. _Mick_. And only one person calls him that. A person who can’t be here. Now that he thinks about it, the bed doesn’t feel right either. It’s too soft. There are too many blankets twisted around his body. He feels warm. He can’t remember ever feeling this warm in his cell.

“Mick!”

Two hands grasp his shoulders and shake. It’s a gentle grip, but it’s enough to shock him into action. He lunges forward. He’s going to fight. It might not be worth much, but he’s not going to watch his future be ripped away from him without at least trying to hold on to it.

There’s a loud _thump_ followed by a muttered, “What the fuck?” Mickey’s heart is racing when he blinks his eyes open. The shades are drawn. It’s dark inside the room, but a flash of red hair catches his attention. It’s Ian. It’s Ian on the floor, clutching his shoulder. Mickey looks down and realizes his hands are curled into fists in front of him, ready to strike. He unfurls them and stares at his palms. They’re damp with sweat. Actually, most of him feels damp.

“Did I do it again?” He hit Ian. He must have. “Fuck, did I hurt you?”

Ian has a sheepish smile on his face. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known better than to grab you like that. I just wanted to wake you up.”

“Nah, I’m the one who’s sorry, man,” Mickey sighs, pushing off the blankets. He uses the collar of his shirt to mop up some of the sweat clinging to his upper lip. He doesn’t know why this is happening now. His father is dead and he’s finally off parole, but the fear still stubbornly remains. “Fuck, I haven’t had one of those dreams in so long. You alright?”

Ian gets up from the floor and settles on to the side of the bed by Mickey. “Sure I am. You didn’t hit me or anything. You shot up, and I just sort of, uh, fell. Gracefully, of course.”

Well, that’s a small blessing at least. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, come on, we’ve talked about this.” The prison nightmares have come and gone over the years. They were never exactly frequent, but they were common enough that Mickey had to talk to Ian about them once they started sharing a bed regularly. Sometimes they’re of the night that Mickey was sure Terry was going to kill him. Sometimes they’re of the day he actually almost did. Neither version is particularly pleasant. Ian’s never been anything but understanding about them, but Mickey still feels like an asshole for hurting him. “Are you alright? Wanna talk about it?” Ian reaches out and smooths down his hair. “What can I do?”

“No, I’m fine. I just want to shower.”

“Sure. Yeah. Of course.”

Mickey starts moving to get up, but Ian doesn’t budge from his spot. He bites down on his lip, and Mickey raises his eyebrows curiously. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

“I sort of had this surprise planned for you today,” Ian says. “But if you’re not feeling up to it, we can do it another time.”

“A surprise?”

A light blush colors Ian’s cheeks. As Mickey pauses to admire just how good it looks on him, he feels his heartrate start to slow back to normal. “Yeah. An overnight trip. I already packed a suitcase for us, but we don’t—”

“Seriously?” Mickey laughs. “Where you taking me, firecrotch?”

“That’s the _surprise_ part of it,” Ian says. “But—”

“Yeah, yeah, stop with all the buts,” Mickey interrupts. “I’m not gonna let some stupid nightmare ruin whatever ridiculous surprise you got planned. Shit, wait, is this finally that Christmas present you’ve refused to tell me about?”

Ian smiles slyly. “Maybe.”

“Thank fuckin’ god. It better be good, Gallagher. The hype is strong.”

“Not worried. I’m pretty confident in it.”

Looking at the smile on Ian’s face is almost like looking at the sun. It lights up the dark room. The tension in his muscles starts to relax until he finally feels like an actual person again, not prey sitting under a predator’s gaze. “Alright, cocky. Just lemme shower quick."

Ian nods but still doesn’t move. He lifts up his arms and then hesitates. “Is it okay if I—?” He mimes out a hug in the air, and Mickey snorts at the display. “Shut up, I was just—” He stops talking when Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s waist. He drags him forward until they’re basically curled up on each other. Mickey holds on a little too tightly, but Ian doesn’t complain. Feeling Ian’s heartbeat against his chest is calming, grounding. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“All of it.”

“Not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry.” Ian kisses the spot just behind his ear, as his thumb rubs soothing circles into Mickey’s hip. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mickey says again, surprised that he really means it. These nightmares used to throw him off for hours, even days, but right now, he feels okay. There’s no temptation to wallow in the fear. All he wants to do is make Ian smile again. “So what’s that box with my name on it under tree all about? Is it part of this trip you got planned?”

“Nah, that’s just the decoy gift. It’s socks.”

“Seriously?”

“They’re really nice socks.”

“God, you’re such a loser.”

“Uh huh, you are gonna be eating those words by the end of the day, Milkovich,” Ian teases. “How about I join you in the shower? I got a bonus gift I wanna give you.”

“Well, I ain’t gonna say no to that.”

 

* * *

 

They’ve been driving for nearly two hours, but Ian insists that Mickey has to keep on the blindfold he made out of one of his old shirts. It’s kind of freaking him out, feeling the car turn and shift and stop without being able to see anything, but Ian wouldn’t stop pouting when he tried to take it off earlier. He’s considering attempting to fall asleep to the boring country music Ian’s got on until they finally get wherever they’re going when Ian suddenly lets out a loud _whooping_ noise.

“What was _that_?”

“What was what?” he asks innocently.

“That gay little cheer.”

“You’ll see,” Ian sing-songs in answer. “We’re almost there.”

Fifteen minutes later, the car stops and falls quiet when Ian parks. Mickey wants to rip the blindfold off, but he feels like he should wait for Ian to give the go-ahead first. A jolt of nervous excitement passes through him when Ian’s hand brushes over the back of his neck. “Okay, so, just keep in mind this is only the first part.”

“The first part?”

“Of the gift.”

“Jesus Christ, Gallagher, I had to wear a blindfold for hours just for _the first part_?”

Ian doesn’t respond to that, but Mickey hears the car door click open and shut. Just as he’s about to take off the blindfold himself, he hears the passenger door open too. “Come on,” Ian urges, pulling him out of the car by his elbow. “You ready for this?” he asks, before he unties the fabric.

Luckily it’s not a very sunny day, but it still takes Mickey’s eyes a couple of blinks to adjust. When he can finally read the sign in front of him, he shoots Ian an incredulous look. They’re standing in front of a chain hotel and not an especially remarkable one. “We drove two hours to go to a hotel,” he says flatly, feeling like he must be missing something. “Ian, why exactly did we drive two hours to go to a hotel? If you wanted to fuck in a—”

“It’s not the hotel itself that’s important,” Ian interjects, a wide grin splitting his face. “It’s _where_ the hotel is that’s important.” He shoves a brochure for the hotel into Mickey’s chest. He has to stare at it for another moment until the pieces start falling into place. _Wisconsin._ The front of this brochure says they’re in fucking Wisconsin. “That cheer you were making fun of me for was because we passed the state border from Illinois—”

Mickey surges forward and kisses him before he can finish explaining. The impact sends Ian stumbling back into the car parked next to them, and Mickey takes the opportunity to press the length of his body up against his. They’re in a public parking lot, but Mickey can’t bring himself to worry about propriety right now. Not when he’s in Wisconsin. Not when he’s finally fucking free.

After putting up with endless drug tests and surprise home visits and his parole officer’s bullshit pep talks, it’s finally over. Even with his solid job and marriage and spotless taxes and actual bank accounts, he’s still shocked the guy recommended his parole be terminated early. He’s even more shocked the recommendation was taken seriously. But here he is, standing in fucking Wisconsin without having to ask anyone’s permission or worry about the police hauling him back to prison for it.

“When did you book this?” Mickey asks breathlessly. “I only got let off last week.”

“A while ago,” Ian admits. “When you told me your parole officer was recommending it.”

“What were you gonna do if it didn’t happen?”

Ian shakes his head. “Didn’t even think about that. I knew it was going to happen. The world owes us a couple wins, don’t you think?”

It probably does, but Mickey wouldn’t let himself even hope for it until the paperwork was physically in his hands. He likes that Ian has still clung to some of his old optimism despite everything—the optimism that used to intrigue and fluster Mickey in equal measure. “We could’ve just driven to the state line.”

“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t get to fuck you in a different state. And then order room service in a different state. And then blow you in the shower in a different—”

Mickey kisses him again, softer this time. “This is a pretty awesome present, Gallagher.”

Ian rests his forehead against Mickey’s. “I thought you might like it.”

“It’s gonna put mine to shame,” Mickey says, thinking of the new sneakers Ian asked for currently sitting under their tree.

Ian’s hands slip down his back and grab his ass. “You’ll find a way to make it up to me.”

“Yeah, alright,” Mickey chuckles, extricating himself from Ian’s grip with a smirk. “How ‘bout we go inside ‘fore we accidentally scandalize a kid or something?”

 

* * *

 

The room smells like sex when Mickey wakes up. The sheets are thrown haphazardly around his and Ian’s bodies. Even though they showered last night, Mickey still feels vaguely dirty. And fuck, does he feel good. His body feels loose and aching at the same time, in the best way. There are faint purple bruises decorating his hips. He presses his thumb down on one of them and hisses at the pain. He closes his eyes and remembers Ian’s hands on him for a moment. Then he shakes his head, snapping himself out of the memory before he starts to get hard. They only finally went to bed a couple hours ago, and Mickey’s not sure he has it in him for another round just yet. Their neighbors probably hate them.

After throwing on a pair of boxers, he looks back at the bed. Ian’s sprawled out across it, long limbs spread out around him like a starfish. Mickey allows himself a moment to take the sight in, to revel in the fact that the two of them actually managed to get to this point. There are old wounds from their past that still twinge from time to time, but he’s started to enjoy the pain. What used to scare him is now only reminder of how far they’ve both come. It was only a few years ago that he thought this kind of future was impossible. Only a few years ago that he was sure he would never see the beautiful man in front of him again.

“What’re you staring at?” Ian mumbles, stretching his arms over his head. “Go back to sleep.”

Mickey laughs and grabs a pillow to chuck at Ian’s head. “Time to wake up, sleepyhead. We got checkout soon, and it looks like a bomb went off in this room.”

Ian whines in protest. “I just want to sleep.”

“You can sleep when we get home,” he says, as he pulls out their suitcase to start packing everything back up.

“Ugh, is it really already over?”

“‘Fraid so. Back to work for us.”

“Please don’t talk to me about work.” Mickey chuckles again and then starts messily packing their stuff, not worrying too much about folding. He’s almost done when he feels two arms wrap around his middle. “You had fun, right?” Ian whispers in his ear.

Mickey drops the shirt he’s holding and places his hands over Ian’s. “‘Course I did.”

“Good, though we haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.”

“Jesus Christ, there isn’t really more, is there? I thought you were jokin’.”

“I never joke about presents.” Ian smacks a kiss against his cheek and then skips over to his backpack in a way that tells Mickey there definitely really is more. When he triumphantly holds up an envelope, Mickey resigns himself to having to go to the fucking mall _again_ , so Ian’s got something more than just some lame sneakers to unwrap Christmas morning. “Here.” He holds out the envelope, but Mickey doesn’t take it right away. He stares at it for a while, trying to discern what it could be holding. “C’mon, just take it." 

“Fine.” Mickey snatches it out of his hand and rips it open without any more hesitation. Instead of a card like he expected, there’s just a bunch of folded up computer paper. Ian is practically bouncing, as Mickey slowly spreads them back out and examines what’s printed on them. “Holy shit,” he breathes, when he realizes just what Ian has handed him. “Holy fuckin’ shit. This is—”

“Tickets for you, me, _and_ Yev!” Ian exclaims. “It’s going to be our first family vacation!”

It’s a flight itinerary—round trip from Illinois to Florida. And there's his name next to Ian's and Yevgeny's. “Does Svet—?”

“It’s all figured out,” Ian assures him before he finish asking. “I talked to Svetlana about it a while ago. And then Yev earlier this month. I really thought Yev was gonna spill the beans before I managed to actually give them to you. That kid can’t lie for shit. And Mandy knows, too. She’s cool with us all staying with her, though we might end up on an air mattress in her kitchen. She’s actually the one who helped me find such cheap tickets. We were—”

He misses whatever else Ian says. He can’t stop reading the names of the airports, even when his eyes starts clouding with tears. He can’t stop reading their names—his _family’s_ names—printed out side by side. “Holy shit, Ian,” he says again, this time in a shaky whisper.

“That’s a good holy shit, right?”

“Of course it is, asshole,” Mickey answers, as a grin stretches across his face. “I’ve never even been on a fuckin’ plane.”

“It’s pretty cool for the first twenty minutes. Then it gets boring as fuck and your legs kind of hurt and the bathrooms are super gross, but—shit, sorry, I’m rambling. I’m just excited.”

“I’m excited too,” Mickey tells him. He carefully places the printed itinerary on top of their suitcase and then walks over to Ian. He pulls him into a tight embrace. “I was so worried I was gonna fuck it up,” he admits. “I was worried I was gonna screw up and get thrown back in there for so long. Sometimes I still worry ‘bout that.”

“I don’t,” Ian says, breath hot against Mickey’s ear. “We got this.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey offers to drive home. It’s not such a bad drive now that he can actually see what's around him. The scenery isn’t very exciting, but there’s fresh snow clinging to the trees that shines and sparkles every time the sun peaks out from behind the clouds.

When they stop at a red light, Ian reaches over the center console and grasps the hand Mickey has resting on his thigh. “We’re gonna go so many places,” he says. “Florida first. And then maybe California. The weather was beautiful out there.”

“Last time I checked we ain’t rich enough to be jet-setting around the country,” Mickey reminds him gently. “But at least our options are more than just fuckin’ _Illinois_ now.”

Ian shrugs, but the dreamy smile on his face doesn’t fade at all. “We’ll figure it out. We’re gonna see shit, Mick.”

“Okay, tough guy,” Mickey laughs, giving his hand a squeeze. “How about for now we just go home, huh?”

“ _Our_ home."

The sun catches on Ian’s hair, and Mickey squeezes his hand again, subconsciously pulling it closer to him. “Yeah, _our_ home.”

The light turns green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thank you all so much for reading and sticking with me for 22(!) chapters. I really appreciate all of your support and kind comments. I've really enjoyed writing this story, and I hope you've enjoyed reading it. I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> Thank you again! :)


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